


Gun in my hand

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [21]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Tommy finds an unexpected visitor in the kitchen one morning and realises that he may have underestimated Luca Changretta.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Filling a request from tumblr from a reader who wanted something more with Changretta (he first appears in my story Bad things). It really got me going, so this is more of a set up for a potentially longer running plot-line. I may post it as a series of one-shots. We'll see! Stuff and things will happen! I can't be more eloquent at the moment, my brain has turned to mush from editing. Enjoy!

 Sometimes, Tommy curses the fact that Alfie’s got well over thirty pounds on him. Namely when they’ve been out drinking. Because it somehow ends far too often with him being absolutely pissed, while Alfie is barely even tipsy.

This is the morning after one of those times. He opens his eyes far later in the morning than he’d planned to, and finds Alfie's side of the bed empty. There’s a glass of Alfie’s usual hangover cure on the nighstand, together with a note.

_Gone to the office for a few hours. Thought I’d let you sleep in. If you manage to get out of bed at all today, there’s bread down in the kitchen- eat._

_/A_

And Tommy smiles, despite the headache. 

He puts on one of Alfie’s shirts, an overly large, washed out thing –reasoning that he’ll sort himself out in a bit. Just needs to eat something before he starts feeling sick. And admittedly, it’s become sort of a habit in the morning. 

His mind is pleasantly quiet as he ventures downstairs. And it’s strange, feeling so oddly at peace with everything. Despite having overslept. 

Though of course it’s bound to blow up in his face, feeling that way. 

And his morning takes an incredibly unexpected turn when he enters the kitchen. 

Luca Changretta sitting at the table reading the newspaper is not exactly a pleasant surprise. 

The sight is enough to make his heart drop, and he just knows that it shows on his face for a moment, before he can straighten his features again. He stands frozen on the threshold, his mind immediately pulling itself out of the morning daze and trying to piece together a plan. 

“Good morning, Thomas,” Changretta says as he leans back in his chair, looking him up and down in a way that makes Tommy’s skin crawl. The corner of his mouth curls upwards. “What a privilege it must be for Solomons, waking up to this sight every day. I truly hope he knows how lucky he is.”

“Mr. Changretta,” Tommy greets him and walks into the kitchen, already having deemed this his only option. Changretta is no doubt armed, and unlikely to be alone. The closest gun in the house is in the dresser at the end of the hallway. He won’t make it there. “A bit unorthodox, this. If you wanted a meeting, you could’ve just called to the office. I’m sure we could’ve set something up.” 

 “Oh, but then I wouldn’t get to see you like this,” Changretta smirks. “My guess is you’re usually a bit more… dressed.” 

Choosing to ignore this comment, Tommy walks over to the kitchen cabinet, taking out a kettle. Could he use it to bash Changretta over the head? How quick would he have to be? 

“I wouldn’t get any ideas, darling,” Changretta advises, uncannily observant. “I’ve got some company waiting outside should you do something… rash. And they are not nearly as gentle as myself. Could turn ugly, this.”

“Tea, Mr. Changretta?” Tommy asks without turning around to acknowledge him, already filling the kettle with water.

“Please.” 

Tommy makes tea, every movement controlled and precise. Calm. As if this is a completely normal way to start the day, and he isn’t the least bit caught off guard.   

Even with his back turned against him, he can feel Changretta’s eyes on him. 

He puts down the pot and two cups, before sitting down opposite to Changretta at the table and reaching for one of his cigarette packets, the one he always keeps on there. “You don’t happen to have a light?”

Changretta pulls out a silver lighter and puts the flame to the cigarette between Tommy’s fingers. Tommy takes a purposefully slow drag, exhales the smoke in a thin stream. He can do this. It’s a game. The rules haven’t been set by him, and he’s certainly not in the position he’d like: In his own kitchen, wearing almost no clothes… unarmed… but he can still play.

“So, I suppose there’s a reason you’re here?”   

“Purely a social call.” Changretta’s right shoulder makes an every so slight shrug. “So how are you, darling? I heard from my associate you two had a little altercation. How is that leg of yours?” 

Fuck, Tommy wishes he would lay off the pet names. Changretta is so clearly trying to provoke him into doing something stupid. But he’s in over his head on that one. 

“As good as new.”

“They did leave your face intact, I hope? I specifically asked them to.” He fiddles the toothpick nonchalantly. 

“As you can see, they did.” 

Changretta takes a sip of his tea. Tommy does the same.

“How are you enjoying London?” he asks. “Seems like you’re in town a lot these days. Saw that article about the new distillery.” 

 

“Well you’re right,” Changretta confirms. “I’ve found myself spending more time than I’d originally planned in this… town.” He says the last word in a voice absolutely dripping with mockery. 

Tommy decides to cut to the chase.

“What do you stand to gain from all of this?” he taps some of the ashes from the cigarette onto the plate. “And not your… deal with Sabini, I assume you have your reasons. But this, unannounced social calls to people’s houses.” 

“Never been pursued by a man before?” Changretta asks as his eyes wander again. “I find that hard to believe.”

“They usually don’t break into my house,” Tommy states and fills his lungs with more smoke. He exhales it very purposefully into Changretta’s face. “There must be men back in New York as well. Why don’t you save the condescending speeches for them?”

“Well, I suppose it must be hard for you to understand.” Changretta crosses an ankle over his knee and makes himself comfortable. “See, back at home, I’ve got everything. Money, power, status… but all those things come with a certain responsibility, don’t they?”

From his inner pocket, he pulls out a switchblade knife that he studies with undivided interest as he toys it between his fingers. Tommy resists the urge to roll his eyes. Fuck, this ridiculous parody of a man…

“In New York I’ve got my reputation to think of. Can’t just take anyone to my bed,” his eyes shift to Tommy again, who just watches him with indifference. “Furthermore, people are generally so… dull, don’t you think? Especially the upper class. And sometimes the days just blur together. Endless boring cocktail parties with tedious conversations.” He flicks the blade out and runs his thumb over the metal. “Paperwork, meetings… men who just tremble at the sight of you. Where’s the excitement in that?” he uses the knife to scrape some non-existent dirt from under his nails, before concluding, “And I must say I thoroughly enjoyed our little conversation in that dingy pub. Thought that while I was in town, I might as well stop by for a little visit.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows in a display of scepticism.

“Seems like a risky move.”

Changretta lets out a quiet chuckle. 

“I’d hardly call this a risk,” he says. “See, you’re of no actual importance. If I decided to slit your throat, the only impact would be the blood stain on the floor.” 

“You know, you seem to put a lot of time and effort into this,” Tommy points out. “It comes off as a bit desperate.” 

Changretta settles his elbows on the tables and leans forward just slightly. 

“Oh, believe me, darling, when I put _actual_ effort into something, you’ll know.” Every word he says seems to come with a threatening implication. “This is just a nice little pastime.”

“May I suggest trying cricket?”  Tommy asks, putting his cigarette out. “Heard that’s what rich people with too much time on their hands get up to."

He wonders if he's pushing his luck.  

With calculated nonchalance, Changretta reaches across the table and takes his hand. Tommy lets him. Because as long as he does, he can pretend he’s got some sort of control over the situation. Pretend that he isn’t completely cornered. 

Turning his palm over, Changretta’s long fingers close around his wrist, putting the tip of the blade against one of the blue veins, clearly visible through the pale skin. 

There’s a clock out in the hallway. An old one, that Alfie inherited from that uncle of his. And it’s an expensive thing, so its ticking is that sort of soft, pleasant one. Tommy listens to it now. 

“The heart is such an interesting thing,” Changretta muses and as he slowly drags the knife along the wrist. Just lightly. But the blade is sharp enough to still leave a thin, red line. “See, it betrays how we’re truly feeling.” The fingers on Tommy’s wrist push against the pulse point.

“Do you know how long it takes for a person to bleed out if you rupture one of the major arteries?” he puts the knife vertically across his wrist, letting it sit just above the skin. 

“Depends on which one,” Tommy answers calmly. “Wrist? I’d say two or three minutes.” Changretta gives a thoughtful nod, pursing his lips as he lowers the knife slightly. The metal is cold against his skin. 

The clock in the hallway ticks steadily. 

“I must say, your utter indifference to this is rather impressive,” Changretta says. “Do you really value your life that little? Or are you just not as clever as I first thought?” 

Tommy offers a light shrug, and picks up the cup with his free hand, taking a mouthful of tea before answering.   

“I think you’d rather avoid getting blood all over that suit.” 

“I’ve got plenty of suits.” The knife digs into his skin, just enough to break it. He doesn’t move a muscle. Changretta watches the little droplets of blood that pools around the blade.

“I should tell you, there’s a strict ‘no weapons- policy' at this table,” Tommy says and gives knife a pointed look. “Me and Alfie try to leave work at the office. And you’re not about to actually use it.”

“You seem awfully sure about that. For someone in your position.”

“Well, just one of my many talents.” He empties his teacup. “I can see into the future.”

“Oh, can you now?” 

Changretta removes the knife and releases Tommy’s wrist. When he pockets it again, Tommy sees the holster resting against his ribs. Clearly, Changretta isn’t taking any chances. 

“Not just the future… I can see all sorts of things. Gypsy witchcraft, you know.” 

Tommy reaches across the table and picks up Changretta’s cup, swirling it lightly to make the tealeaves spread across the bottom of it. He gives it a while, studying the indistinct pattern they’ve created with feigned interest.

“You’re acting as if you’re somehow above everyone, that you have a logical reason for everything you do,” he begins, still with his eyes fastened on the cup. “But you’re no different from any other man. You’re trying very hard to rationalise your actions. But the thing is, I don’t think _you_ even know why you’re here, in someone’s kitchen. With a man you’ve met _once_.”

He looks up. Changretta is watching him with an unreadable expression.

“I’d like to hear what you think. Why am I here? In your kitchen.”

Tommy gives another shrug. “Because you’d like to fuck me. I really don’t think it’s more complicated than that. It’s not part of some fucking scheme. You’re just thinking with your cock.” He lets out a dry laugh. “And we both know where that ends. In a business like this.” 

Changretta stares at him, unblinking. A faint sneer curls his lip, accentuated by the toothpick.

“Why don’t you take a look in that cup and tell me?”

Tommy focuses his attention back on the tealeaves. “Yes, see, right here-“ he tilts the cup just slightly in Changretta’s direction. Changretta gives it a quick glance, before looking up again. Tommy leans in until their faces are just inches apart. 

“It ends with me putting a bullet through your fucking head.”

A bird caws outside the window. The clock ticks as steadily as before. And Changretta says nothing. 

“Now if you excuse me, I need to get to the office.” Tommy stands up. It’s a calculated risk. He needs to end this conversation now. “I’m already late.” 

Changretta mirrors his action and they’re stood opposite each other in the kitchen. It’s the first time Tommy’s standing next to the man, and he realises he barely comes up to his shoulder.

Perhaps he should’ve stayed seated after all. 

Without any warning, Changretta’s hand comes up to grab his throat, and Tommy has to fight the urge to recoil at the touch. The hand doesn’t squeeze, just rests lightly on his neck. 

Suddenly he’s standing with his back against the wall, Changretta looming over him.

“It’s harder than you’d think to choke someone with your bare hands,” he muses and runs a thumb down his windpipe. “Takes quite a lot of strength. And time. But it’s less messy than a knife.” The thumb presses down a bit, and Tommy is so close to snapping and grabbing Changretta’s arm. Tear himself away from the touch, grab the closest object at hand at use it to bash that smug face in…

He does none of those things. 

There’s no room for mistakes here. It’s just his pride taking a beating. Not worth dying for. But fuck if it doesn’t take absolutely every ouns of self-control to tell himself that. 

“Thought you didn’t care about your suit,” he says instead. “Why not use the knife?” 

Changretta’s face splits in a grin.

“And you ask me why I’m here,” he chuckles. “This, this is why I’m here. This thrill. You can’t say you’re not feeling it too?”

“Think you’ve gravely misread the situation.” 

Leaning down, Changretta puts himself close enough for Tommy to smell his ridiculously expensive cologne.

“Maybe I will use the knife,” he whispers. “Do just enough damage… make sure you can’t fight back. And take you bent over the table while you’re bleeding out.” There's a glint in his eyes, the suave façade cracking for a moment and letting something else seep through. 

Right then, Tommy feels the first twist of fear somewhere deep in his gut.   

“I took you for a gentleman, Mr. Changretta,” he says. “Seems a bit… brutish, don’t you think?” 

“Thought you enjoyed that sort of thing,” Changretta’s mouth is right by his ear. “Isn’t that why you’re in Solomons' bed?” He straightens up to his full, unnerving height and the hand around Tommy's neck tightens its grip experimentally. 

“See, you’ve got to crush the windpipe,” he tells him as a matter-of-factly. “Not just squeeze the sides.” The thumb presses down, and Tommy feels his airways close. It’s fine. Nothing he can’t handle. Changretta won’t kill him. Not now. 

He listens to the clock. To the steady ticking. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink as he stares coldly up at Changretta who stares back with equal intensity in the dark eyes. The second he starts fighting back, he’ll lose what little control he has over the situation. He just has to wait this out, let Changretta play out his last card. 

He’s going to think about this moment when he puts a bullet in his head.

The clock ticks. The seconds seem to drag themselves by. He just needs to wait- but his lungs are screaming for air now and he is forced to draw in a breath. But he can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe –and it’s like being crushed under a downpour of rocks, pressing the air from his lungs- and his ears fill with the sound of shovels scraping against dirt. His body starts to act on its own accord, mouth falling open as he instinctually begins gasping for breath. Hands grasping Changretta’s wrist, he pulls to remove the hand. Changretta is deceptively strong, but he has to use both his hands when Tommy starts to fight him. It lasts for a few more seconds –black dots are clouding his vision and the smell of blood and dirt somehow fills his nose even though he can’t breathe. Then, either by his own choice, or due to Tommy’s violent fight to get loose, Changretta releases him. Tommy can’t help it- he coughs and splutters his lungs fill with air. In the distance, he thinks he can hear the shovels- 

“Well, I must be going now.” Changretta’s voice comes from somewhere far away, and his steps disappear over the kitchen floor towards the hallway. “Give my best to Solomons.”

Tommy manages to pull himself together enough to form an answer.

“Enjoy London, Mr. Changretta.” He regrets saying anything the second the words leave his mouth, because his voice comes out hoarse.

“I’m sure I will,” Changretta tips his hat lightly. “I’ll see you, Thomas.”

Then he leaves, and the front door slams.

Tommy finds himself on the floor, his knees having suddenly decided to give up. The cold sweat drips down his back as he tries to breathe that way Alfie taught him, in slowly, hold it for a few seconds, and then out. In and out. It's just in his head. Everything is fine... 

It takes time just to gain control over his breathing again, but once he does, the scraping of shovels fade and is replaced by the steady ticking. 

Fuck. He lost it. 

Overwhelmed by frustration, he gets back on his feet and tries to find something to take the feeling out on. His eyes land on the two teacups on the table and he throws them both across the room, sending shards of porcelain flying. Running both hands over his face, he tries to pull himself together. No room for mistakes. No room to have a fucking breakdown. Not for him. 

Something drips onto his bare foot, and it’s not until he looks down at the red stains that he remembers his wrist and sets about bandaging himself up.

For once, he’s at loss with what to do. He’s got half a mind to not tell Alfie about this humiliating little encounter, because that will no doubt result in absolute chaos. And weren’t it for the bruises he knows he’ll have around his neck, maybe he would’ve given the thought some serious consideration. As it is now, it’s no use. He’ll have to tell him. 

Better just have it over with, before he changes his mind.

He calls Alfie at the office and as the signals go through, a knot of worry settles in the pit of his stomach. The thought hasn’t crossed his mind until now, but what if-

It’s Ollie who picks up, Alfie is off somewhere in the bakery. But everything is alright, no visits from Changretta or his men, and Tommy feels the tension melt from his shoulders. He informs Ollie briefly about the situation and doesn’t give him time to ask any questions before hanging up.

He’s upstairs getting dressed when the phone rings. Ollie is on the line again.

“Boss told me to say exactly this: stay right there, lock the door, he’s on his way,” he says as if reading from a script. “There was a lot of graphic threats of violence as well - but maybe we don’t need to-“ 

“No, it’s fine.” Tommy doesn’t need him to recap that for him, he gets the idea. So he just hangs up and goes to pour himself a whiskey as he waits for Alfie to come home, fully prepared to face a virtual storm. He can hear Alfie in his head, _‘fucking told you we needed to have people watching the house!”_

When a key turns in the lock on the front door, Tommy is well into his second whiskey and braces himself to sit through one of Alfie’s more violent rants. 

“Tommy?” Alfie calls out as his steps approach over the hardwood floor. 

“In the living room.” His voice is still hoarse. Fuck. This is not a conversation he’s looking forward to. 

Alfie appears in the doorway, eyes wide and chest heaving in too fast breaths, as if he’s just run the entire way from the office. Tommy prepares himself for a flood of question and then some screaming.

But Alfie just crosses the floor in two long strides and pulls him into a tight hug, cradling his head in one of his hands and pressing a kiss against his temple. Then he holds him there, arms almost convulsively tight around him and nose buried in his hair. Pulling himself out of his mild stupor, Tommy returns the hug and strokes his back in a comforting gesture.

“It’s okay, Alfie,” he says and hopes his voice doesn’t sound too broken. “Everything’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine,” Alfie mutters into his hair and shakes his head. “It’s not fucking fine.”

They stand like that for a long while before Alfie pulls out of the embrace, eyes now scanning Tommy’s body for injuries.   

“Are you hurt?” 

“Just a scratch.” Tommy holds up the bandaged wrist. He’ll explain the bruises around his neck when they unavoidably appear. One thing at a time.

“Do you need a doctor?” Alfie asks, voice soft. It almost makes Tommy wish he’d get angry instead.   

“Does it look like that?” he quirks an eyebrow, but Alfie isn’t the least bit amused

 “I need you to be completely fucking honest right now, Tommy,” he says. “We don’t have to go to the hospital, I’ll get one to come here- If you-“

“I don’t need one.” 

Alfie doesn’t push the matter, but the implications of the question hang in the air. Tommy resists the urge to shake his head to rid it of the intrusive thoughts. 

 Now, when the initial fear has settled, Alfie lets go of Tommy, takes a step backwards as he clenches his jaw tightly. 

“I’m going to fucking kill him.” he snarls through gritted teeth. “I’m going to take that fucking toothpick and shove it into his eye until it punctures his fucking brain- That arrogant piece of-“ 

“Alfie, you need to stay calm,” Tommy attempts to quell this outburst. “This isn’t helping.” 

“You want me to stay calm?” Alfie snaps, bearing an eerie resemblance to a bull ready to impale someone on their horns.  “That fucking cunt waltzed into our fucking house, like he fucking owned the place, and you want me to stay calm?” 

He’s spiralling. And Tommy knows that if he’d like to avoid a full on rampage, he’ll have to defuse the situation. He honestly can’t handle any more of this shit today.

“Alfie-“ Tommy takes his face between his hands. “Look at me, I need you to keep it together, alright? None of this, not right now.” 

Alfie stares wide eyed at him, and Tommy meets his gaze.

“He could have-“ 

 “You can’t count all the things that could’ve happened in this business,” Tommy cuts him off. “That if anything will drive you insane.” He stares unwavering at Alfie, hoping to install some sense of security. “Nothing happened. He’s all talk.”

 For just a second, he’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Alfie or himself of this. 

“Then what the fuck did he want?”

“Just a little pastime while he’s in London,” Tommy shrugs it off. “I recommended him to try cricket instead.”

Alfie blinks.

“Bloody stupid sport, that,” he grumbles.

"Would suit him fine, then." Tommy pulls him into another hug, cradling his head as Alfie buries his face in the crook of his neck. His breaths are even now, calm, and his shoulders slump.

“If you think I’m about to let this fucking slide-“ 

“Obviously not,” Tommy rolls his eyes despite Alfie being unable to see it. “But you and me both know that you can’t make decisions when you’re like this.”

Alfie lets out an indignant huff, but doesn’t pull out of the embrace. And he doesn’t seem to be willing to discuss the matter right now. 

Maybe it would’ve been better if he’d been angry, because this reaction -that he doesn’t push, doesn’t scream and rage and throw things- it shows how much Alfie’s feared for him.

Fear makes people do irrational, stupid things. 

Tommy knows right then that he can never let Alfie know everything that transpired in the kitchen, because then he’ll lose it completely. 

“It’s going to be alright,” he whispers. “We’ll figure it out.”

And maybe if he never tells anyone, it’ll be like it never happened. And he can let the memories of Changretta’s hands around his neck fade, blur at the edges until they disappear completely.

 ...

Tommy can’t fall asleep that night. His brain won’t turn off –it’s working frantically on puzzling together a plan- _Set up a meeting with Sabini, propose a truce, make him see that in the end, Changretta will fuck him over- find out more about Changretta… what his personal life looks like… if anything can be used as leverage-_  

He needs to solve this. Because Alfie is not thinking clear at the moment –much like Tommy expected, once the first shock had settled, he went on a rather long and violent rant about all the different ways he planned on ending Changretta’s life.

Maybe it’ll be better tomorrow, or in a day or two, once he’s settled a bit. And by then, Tommy will have figured something out. This is what he’s good at. 

Alfie is sound asleep next to him, after Tommy’s successful endeavours of tiring him out. Tommy knows a few ways to make him forget all about his worries for a little while. Another thing he’s good at. 

If only it worked as well on his own head.

He needs to sleep. The familiar weight has already settled on his chest, memories of all those restless, lonely nights spent staring at the wall or wandering the streets aimlessly blending into his rational thoughts. There’s no room for that now- his head needs to be clear. 

Closing his eyes, he focuses on Alfie’s breathing, the warmth of his body next to his. It usually helps. Though not tonight, it would seem, as the thoughts continue to spin in his head. _Changretta’s self assured smirk, the hands around his throat, he needs to solve this, keep Alfie sane- things were too good, and everything will fall apart if he doesn’t figure this out-_  

With all his attention on Alfie’s breathing, the sudden hitch in it causes him to instantly open his eyes to look at him. A frown has appeared on his previously so peaceful face and he begins to move about ever so slightly, shifting uneasily in his sleep. Tommy nestles closer, hushing him gently. He knows the signs of a nightmare when he sees them, as rare as they are with Alfie. 

Alfie mutters something he can’t understand, the frown deepening. He wonders if this is what it’s like for Alfie, to watch him during the nights…,

“Shh, it’s just a dream,” he whispers and strokes his hair, “Just a dream, love.” 

Alfie’s eyes snap open and he sucks in a harsh breath, as if he’s been suffocating and suddenly can breathe again. Cupping his cheek, Tommy turns Alfie’s face towards his and their eyes meet through the darkness of the bedroom. 

“Tommy?” the question comes as a sharp exhale as Alfie reaches out for him, hands fumbling over the back of his neck and down his shoulders.

“I’m here,” Tommy curls himself around Alfie’s larger body, wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing his forehead. “Everything’s alright.” 

They stay wrapped up like that for a long time, Tommy running his hand down Alfie’s back.

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” Alfie mutters suddenly, clearly not all there in the head. “You know that right? I’ll-“ a yawn escapes him. “I’ll keep you safe.”

There are about a million logical things Tommy knows he could say right at that moment. But he chooses none of them.

“I know,” he whispers, only because it’s what Alfie needs to hear right now. "Go back to sleep." 

“No, you’re awake…” Alfie is already drifting off again, words turning slurred. “Bad night?” It’s an instinctual question by, even when he can just barely keep his eyes open. Tommy hushes him.

“It’s fine, you just woke me up with all your tossing and turning,” he says softly and cards his fingers through his hair. “Just sleep.” Too dazed to catch the lie, Alfie just hugs him a bit closer.

Tommy soon feels him relax in his arms, and it somehow makes the unease crawling in his chest settle. And soon enough, he falls asleep too.   


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I've been on a bit of a hiatus to finish the last of my schoolwork, but now I have returned! Sorry this chapter has taken so long, I had some other requests to finish. But if you like this story you'll be happy to know that it'll now be regularly updated every week until it's finished! If you'd like to see what I'll be writing, my new WIP list is posted on my tumblr! Here's a long, clunky link 
> 
> https://whentommymetalfie.tumblr.com/post/174604478047/stuff-that-will-happen-work-in-progress-56-so

 

It’s hard to imagine there are any bad things in the world when the sun is setting and enveloping everything in a warm glow. Maybe that’s why Alfie feels oddly at peace when he unlocks the front door, stepping inside. It’s as if all of his problem has been muted along with the sunlight.

“Tommy?” The house is quiet. “I’m home now, sweetheart.” 

His feet carry him into the living room, to see if Tommy has fallen asleep on the sofa. Hopefully he has; he could use the rest. His silly boy, always rushing about. But upon finding the room empty, he ventures upstairs instead, still calm. 

 It’s their home, nothing bad could ever happen here. 

The bedroom is the first place he checks, opening the door as quietly as he can.  

He freezes on the threshold, feeling as if all the air has been sucked from his lungs as he takes in the sight. The room is bathing in the soft, warm light of the setting sun, painting the pale wallpaper in golden tones. It makes the whole thing even more horrific. 

For some reason, it’s the position that makes the alarms go off in his head first. Tommy never falls asleep like that, sprawled out. He always curls up on his side. A habit from the war perhaps, safer that way. 

Somehow, he notices this before the blood. 

And there’s so much blood. It’s contrasting grotesquely against the white sheets. His entire body feels numb as he staggers forward and slumps down onto the mattress.

Tommy’s eyes are closed, as if he’s just sleeping and will wake up any moment. Smile at Alfie-

His white shirt is soaked in red, and Alfie can’t even tell where all the blood is coming from. He needs to find a wound, needs to stop the bleeding...  

No one can lose this much blood and still-

 _Shut up._  

He pulls Tommy into his arms. Needs to hold him close, show him that he’s going to fix this, that he’ll take care of him… He promised, didn’t he? 

A pair of bright blue eyes suddenly look up at him from under a veil of thick lashes 

“Alfie…” 

He nods, fighting against his uncooperative tongue to form words 

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he rasps out. “Don’t you worry. I’ll fix this.”   

“Of course it’ll be okay,” Tommy coughs, and a stream of blood seeps from the corner of his mouth as he gives Alfie a soft little smile. “You’re here.” 

“Where are you hurt?”

“Everything’s okay,” Tommy repeats his words, still strangely peaceful.  

Realising he won’t get a helpful answer, Alfie rips the shirt open, but finds Tommy’s pale skin unmarred by injuries. It should be a relief, but Tommy is steadily growing weaker in his arms, breaths rattling in his throat. The blood is everywhere, somehow pooling around them, dripping down onto the floorboards with an unnaturally loud noise. It digs itself into his brain, hammering against his temples.

“Tommy, where are you hurt?” Alfie repeats, shaking him in a vain attempt to force an answer from him.

Letting out a horrific gurgling noise and spilling a mouthful of blood down onto the already red sheets, Tommy sags in his arms. His eyes glaze over, staring blankly up at Alfie. Completely devoid of life. 

His heart is so far up his throat it’s impossible to breathe.

“Tommy!” Alfie shakes him again, only succeeding in making his head tip lifelessly to the side. 

“Thought you said you’d keep him safe,” a voice drawls. “How’s that working out for you?” 

A tall figure emerges from the shadows that have suddenly filled the previously so bright room. Changretta smirks and walks over to stand next to the bed, arms crossed loosely over his chest. 

“Pity,” he tuts and looks down at the still figure cradled in Alfie’s lap. “Thought he’d last longer. But people are so fragile, aren’t they?” 

Alfie wants to rip his head from his fucking neck with his bare hands, but he can’t move. 

_Why can’t he move?_

The shadows are closing in, drowning him. He can’t see Tommy... can't see anything

Alfie bolts upright in the bed, gasping for breaths and looking around the room with wide eyes. It's dark, still, but there's no blood. The absence of a warm body next to him does nothing to calm his racing pulse. 

“Tommy?” He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets out, barely awake enough to stay on his feet. But he has to find Tommy. Pinching the bridge of his nose as the dull headache overwhelms him, he squeezes his eyes shut and grips the doorframe for support. 

Light footsteps quickly ascend the stairs and when he comes out in the hallway, Tommy is there to meet him, eyebrows knit together in a concerned frown as he looks at Alfie. 

Closing the distance between them, Alfie pulls him into a tight hug and only then can he finally breathe again. 

“Nightmare?” Tommy wonders softly and wraps his arms around his back, stroking it gently. Giving nothing but a grunt in response, Alfie buries his face against his neck, willing his pulse to stop racing. 

Tommy’s here. In his arms. Alive and well. Everything’s okay. Despite telling himself this, it takes quite a while before he believes it enough to loosen the convulsive grip around Tommy’s waist. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tommy mumbles and runs a hand through his hair. He shakes his head. No, he doesn’t want to talk. For once. Can’t let Tommy know how much he thinks about this, how it’s ingrained itself into his brain and muddled his thoughts. 

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asks instead. 

As if on que, Tommy coughs into the crook of his arm. 

“Didn’t want to wake you up with this,” he says with a vague gesture to his throat. 

Alfie’s heart drops into the pit of his stomach. _No, no, not this again. Not this too._

“Do you have a fever?” He frowns and puts a hand on Tommy’s forehead in search of an elevated temperature.   

“It’s just a cough, nothing to worry about.” Tommy firmly takes his hand and removes it from his face, before leading him back towards the bedroom. “It’s probably the cold air. I used to get them a lot when I was a child.” 

Still dazed from his sudden awakening, Alfie lets himself be led back to the bed. Tommy guides him down onto the mattress, hands gentle. 

“Go back to sleep.” 

“You need to sleep too,” Alfie mutters, already feeling himself drift off again. 

“I will.” Tommy tries and fails to smother a cough as he lies down next to him, putting several pillows behind his back to relieve some of the strain on his chest. “Don’t worry. Just get some rest now.” 

Alfie falls asleep with Tommy’s fingers carding softly through his hair. 

...

The following day at the office is nothing short of another nightmare. 

Alfie rubs his temples and tries to make the headache go away by sheer willpower. The restless nights are taking a toll on him, he can’t deny it. He’s in an almost perpetual state of annoyance. There’s a tension simmering right below the surface of his skin, and his brain somehow feels too large for his skull. Like it’s pushing against his forehead and temples. He knows the signs, knows that it’s just a matter of time before he snaps at something.

The electricity buzzes in the lightbulb in his desk lamp, making a high-pitched hum. It’s an unbearable sound when you have a headache.

He doesn’t understand how Tommy did it –the not sleeping thing. Back when days, weeks, could pass without him sleeping more than a few meagre hours each night. It’s only been two weeks since Changretta’s little home visit, and he can count the nights he’s slept through on one hand. It’s doing things to his head. All of this is. It’s a strange feeling: being so aware that he’s not thinking straight, and yet unable to do anything about it.

The problem –or, one of the many fucking problems- is that it doesn’t get better. Just builds. The pressure.

He gives up on the paperwork for now and just focuses on clearing his head, closing his eyes against the suddenly too bright lights in the office. Images of the bruises around Tommy’s neck, the blood against the white sheets, flitter by behind his closed eyelids…. Some of them aren’t real. Some of them are only in his head. But it doesn’t really make it any easier. 

Alfie clenches his jaw. It’s not like him, this. 

He opens his eyes again when Tommy enters the office, pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of that rattling cough. 

“You should be in bed,” he grunts and looks back down at his papers.

“It’s just a cough. If I were in bed every time I had one, I’d live there,” Tommy retorts and goes to sit by his desk, sifting through a massive pile of papers.

“Maybe you should,” Alfie says. “Will drive you into an early grave, this negligence of basic human needs. Swear one day you’ll just collapse where you stand. Not that it hasn’t happened already, bloody hell. Fucking hazard to yourself is what you are.” 

Not dignifying this with an answer, Tommy focuses his attention on the papers. Alfie tries to do the same, but the lightbulb buzzes incessantly, his head pounds, and every time Tommy lets out another cough, he can feel himself nearing some sort of breaking point.

All the memories of the last time wash over him, emerging from some hidden corner of his mind. It’s been almost a year, and yet he can still remember exactly how it felt to sit there in the tub with Tommy’s lifeless body in his arms. It’s eerily similar to how he was cradling it in his dream.

Maybe he can keep Tommy safe from men like Changretta. At least he’s got a fighting chance, with around the clock surveillance of the house and a whole bloody entourage that follows wherever he goes.

What if it’s all for nothing?

Against illness, even Alfie Solomons must admit defeat. And it’s utterly terrifying 

The familiar smell of Tommy’s cigarettes reaches his nose.

“Oh, for fucks sake, put that thing out,” he groans. “You don’t have to actively try to make that cough worse. Can't possibly be healthy, filling your lungs up with that shit.”

Tommy glances up briefly and offers him a raised eyebrow, but makes no move to abandon the cigarette, instead taking a long drag that he exhales towards the ceiling. It’s followed by another cough. 

Right, that’s fucking it. 

Alfie gets out of his chair, stalking over to Tommy’s desk and snatching the cigarette straight out of his hand, stubbing it out on the desk before tossing it onto the floor where it lands without a sound. It’s unsatisfying. 

“Go home,” he says sharply. “Go to bed. Don’t just sit here and cough your fucking lungs out.” 

Leaning back in his chair, Tommy looks up at him. 

“What has gotten into you?” he asks and furrows his brow. “It’s just a cough.” 

“Well, it’s always that way with you, innit? Nothing,” Alfie spits. “And last time you thought it was, I ended up sitting in a tub of freezing water just trying to cool your overheating brain off. Fucking hell. Just a cough. Just a fucking mobster breaking into our house. What will it take for you to take anything seriously?” 

Tommy stands up, grabbing him gently by the shoulders. 

“Is that what this is about?” His soft tone only serves to rile Alfie up and he shrugs the hands off, going to pace in front of his desk instead. “Alfie, nothing happened. You need to calm down.”

It’s those words that finally make Alfie snap.

“Calm down? Do you have any fucking idea how scared I was?” He tries to fill his lungs completely, but something keeps the air from going all the way down. “How absolutely fucking terrified I felt when I found out about Changretta’s bloody home visit?”

“Nothing happened,” Tommy repeats, his voice still perfectly controlled. And it infuriates Alfie even further, that he can stand there and be so fucking calm about the whole thing. _That he can stand there with ugly bruises circling his neck and claim that nothing happened._ The bruises aren’t there anymore, having faded by now. But Alfie thinks he can still see them somehow, contrasting starkly against Tommy’s pale skin as a reminder that Changretta put his hands on him. 

The buzzing from the lamp dies out abruptly when Alfie tears it from its socket and hurls it into the opposite wall. Tommy doesn’t even blink.

“Nothing! Is that what you call it? Nothing?” he barks, slamming his palms down onto his desk hard enough to make the objects on it rattle. “Don’t you think I look at those bruises every single fucking second of the day and think about it? That he could’ve-“ 

He can’t bear to say it.

Offering no response to this other than that icy stare, Tommy clenches his jaw tightly. Alfie stays behind the desk, the piece of furniture serving as a barrier between them.

“I’m sorry that I can’t handle everything with your fucking casual indifference. As if nothing fucking matters. And fuck if I know, maybe it doesn’t to you. Maybe nothing fucking matters.”   

His thoughts are spinning too fast in his head, blurred by the anger. 

Tommy needs to leave. He can’t be here. Can’t be with Alfie, because it’ll get him killed. He can’t keep Tommy safe. So he can’t keep him at all.

Tommy looks at him with those large eyes, deceptively innocent with their size and colour. It’s those eyes that will do him in.

Those blue eyes, glazed with fever. 

Those same eyes, staring up at him, empty, drained of life. 

_Thought you said you’d keep him safe?_

The simmering under his skin bubbles to the surface. 

“Know what, I wish you’d never turned up here.” He throws the words in Tommy’s face, wants to hurt him, make him leave… “My life was infinitely less fucking complicated before you did.”

“You don’t mean that,” Tommy says quietly, and something glints in the blue depths. A twinge of insecurity. Alfie sees the opportunity and takes it. 

“I had everything all planned out,” he spits. “Had my business, things were running smoothly. And now look, I’ve got the New York mafia showing up at my fucking door, a full on war with Darby Sabini. And for what?” He breathes shakily through his nose. “For a fucking basket-case. A whole lot of trouble is all you are. I’m sort of doubting if it’s worth it.” 

Tommy’s shoulders have dropped from their normal rigid posture into a slight slump, as if he’s curling inwards on himself. It’s an almost invisible shift, but Alfie can read him like an open book by now. Tommy seems to search for something in his eyes, a sign that he’s regretting the harsh words. 

Alfie looks at the shards of glass on the floor, the fragments of the table lamp.                                       

“You should leave.”

“I won’t,” Tommy says, voice surprisingly steady. “Not this time.” 

“Fine, then I will.” Alfie storms past him, putting as much distance between them as possible. “Go back to Birmingham. To your little pond,” he spits and snags his coat off the hanger. “Better for everyone that way.”

He leaves the office without looking back, slamming the door shut.   

Tommy doesn’t come after him. 

Outside, the bleak winter day has given way for an even bleaker evening as Alfie wanders the streets, steps aimless as his fragmented mind struggles to find a direction. He can’t go home. But he can’t go somewhere where he’ll have to face other people…

Then a thought hits him, the first clear one and he clings to that. 

The Synagogue is empty when he enters it. Been a while since he set foot in here. 

Alfie isn’t sure what he believes anymore, but the place is always shrouded in silence and peace. As if it’s a world separate from everything that happens on the streets outside.  For some reason, this is always where he ends up when he needs to get away from it all.

He slumps down on one of the benches, elbows resting on his knees and head cradled in his hands. Every breath is too loud in his ears, and his heart feels like a solid piece of lead in his chest, cold and heavy. It’s not until now, when his feet are no longer moving and he no longer has a clear goal in mind, that it fully dawns on him what he’s done. That he’s fucked everything up completely; done irreparable damage to what they had. He tries telling himself again that it’s for the best, regain the feverish determination from the office. If this is what it takes for Tommy to be safe, to go back to Birmingham, it’s worth it. He’s never going to be completely safe, being a hazard to himself and all. But at least Alfie won’t be responsible for the things that might happen.

But it’s worth it, isn’t it? Just one fucking moment of looking into Tommy’s eyes when he smiles is worth a thousand ones worrying. The realization sends an almost physical jolt of pain through his chest, and he has to grit his teeth. 

It had to end this way, didn’t it?  

Tommy is never going to forgive him for this.

Tommy can forgive screaming and raging and throwing things. But not being told he’s not worth it. As if Alfie wouldn’t gladly give up his entire business if it meant keeping him safe. 

Alfie stares blankly at the floor as he watches the shadows grow longer. 

He’s always felt it like time doesn’t exist in this place. Like it’s this void, where it’s never night and never day, always some indistinguishable time in between. It’s even harder to tell that it passes now, when he’s caught up in the same thoughts that just repeat over and over again in his brain as he tries to convince himself this is for the best. 

But it’s impossible to decide what he’ll do now, to form some sort of plan. He can’t go home; face the empty house. Face that he’s probably made the biggest mistake of his entire life. 

 _Yeah, what the fuck have you done?_  

It’s impossible to know how many minutes, or hours have passed when he hears the soft footsteps echo in the room, bouncing off the walls and the high ceiling. Alfie doesn’t bother looking up. Maybe it’s one of Changretta’s men who’s decided to drop by. And for moment, Alfie thinks that maybe it’s for the best. The thought makes him let out a humourless snort. Hasn’t he turned into a lovesick fool? Bloody rude too, to kill in the Lord’s house. But then he hears a familiar cough, and he’s too taken aback to look up. Maybe he doesn’t dare to, afraid that he’s just imagining things. Could be, with how fucked up his head seems to be these days. 

Not until the steps come down the row of benches he’s seated on does he glance up.

Tommy sits down next to him, eyes fastened on the stained-glass window overlooking the hall. 

“It’s a beautiful place, this,” he says softly. 

He looks tired.

Alfie nods and trains his eyes on the same spot. 

“Well, it is the Lord’s house, innit. Only fitting that it is.”  

A long stretch of silence follows, only interrupted by Tommy coughing every now and then. Alfie isn’t sure what to do –he didn’t expect this. So when he finally decides to speak, the words are just the first ones that come to his mind.   

“I was a captain, right, during the war,” he says, without any idea of where he’s going with this. “Told you that, haven’t I?” 

“You have,” Tommy confirms, shifting a bit closer to his side. Cold, as usual.  

“And every day, I had to make all these decisions,” Alfie continues, revelling in the contact. “Was responsible for countless of fucking lives. And it was hard alright.” Tommy is watching him with undivided attention. He lets out a sigh. Reminiscing about the war tends to bring those about. “Suppose I got used to it after a while. But none of that was as hard as this.” 

Tommy’s hand finds his, and Alfie instinctively wraps it up between both of his own, trying to chase some of the chill away. 

“Of course it was,” Tommy says and squeezes his hand. “You’ve just forgotten. Easier that way.”

“No.” Alfie shakes his head. No, nothing could ever have been as hard as this. “I’ve never been this afraid to lose something.” He has to tear his eyes away from Tommy again, because there’s this strange burning sensation behind them suddenly. 

Tommy patiently waits for him to continue. It’s not often he finds himself lacking words, but this is one of those rare occasions.   

“I always thought, right, that you’d get yourself killed one day,” he begins. “And all I had to do was to keep you from doing that. Get you to eat and sleep. Not drink all the fucking time. And get you off that fucking opium.” He pauses. “But I’m getting it now, don’t I? That it’s not you, who will get yourself killed. It’s me, innit?” He tries to swallow past the lump that has steadily been growing in his throat the latest hours. “I feel… I feel like I’m always one second away from doing something that will blow this whole thing. And that fucking cough… I mean I can’t do shit about that. But I don’t- I can’t lose you.”

Tommy cradles his face in one hand, running his thumb gently over his cheekbone. Then he takes Alfie’s hand in the other, places it on his chest where his heart is beating steadily.  

“I’m right here, Alfie. Very much alive. Because of you.” He pulls Alfie into an embrace that he gratefully leans into. “You saved me,” he whispers into his ear. “Over and over again. And you save me every night when I don’t have to face the shovels alone.”

He sounds so sincere, and so fucking grateful. Even after all the things Alfie said back in the office. 

Alfie feels something crack inside of him, and digs his fingers into his eye sockets, gritting his teeth against the burning feeling behind his eyelids that won’t fucking go away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice thick. He’s not even sure what part he’s apologizing for, a bit of everything, probably.  

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Tommy assures him. “You were worried. I shouldn’t have brushed it off. I know you didn’t mean… those things you said.” 

It’s some strange mixture of guilt, relief and just incomprehensible weariness that make the tears come. 

Alfie can’t remember the last time he cried, and the sensation almost feels unnatural at first. But he buries his face in the crook of Tommy’s neck, and it all just pours out of him, all the stress, fear… the bad nights. Tommy holds him close, rocking him back and forth as if he’s a child. Alfie wraps his arms tightly around his waist, pulling him close, clinging to him, and just cries. It’s impossible to control it. Tommy doesn’t ask him to. Doesn’t tell him to get it together, or calm down. Just holds him as he sobs into his shoulder, fingers raking gently against the back of his neck. The sobs echoes in the room, sounding unnaturally loud. Tommy holds him together with that embrace, keeps him from just falling apart completely. 

And he cries. 

Throughout the whole thing, Tommy's grip never falters. 

Even when the tears have all run out, after what seems like an eternity, he keeps his head bowed, forehead resting heavily against Tommy’s shoulder.   

He’s so fucking tired. 

“I feel like I’m losing it,” his voice is muffled against Tommy’s neck.

“You’re not,” Tommy promises with reassuring ease, stroking his back. “You’re as sane as you ever were.”

“That’s not saying a lot.”

Alfie raises his head when Tommy cradles it between his hands. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.” He wipes the remnants of the tears away with his thumbs. “But I could do without the storming off part,” he adds with a crooked little smile.

Alfie pulls him in for a soft kiss, out of words at the moment. 

“You’ll get my cough,” Tommy protests weakly. 

“I’ll take my chances,” Alfie mutters against his lips. “Just a cough, innit?” He cradles the back of his head and nudges his lips apart as he deepens the kiss. And when he closes his eyes this time, all he sees is Tommy’s smile. 

Finally breaking the kiss, Tommy stands up, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet

“Let’s go home.”

They walk homewards in the dim morning light. And on the abandoned London streets, away from prying eyes, Tommy can keep holding his hand.

“How did you know where I was by the way?” Alfie wants to know. “Another one of your many talents perhaps, clairvoyance? Doesn’t that run in your family?" 

“You told me,” Tommy answers simply. “Took a while to get here, though.”

Alfie suppresses the urge to point out he shouldn’t be walking about alone at night. There’s been enough of that sort of talk for now. He just as carefully avoids the thought that it’s his fault he did. 

“When?” he asks, pushing the concerns away for now.

“We were out on a walk I think.” Tommy looks thoughtfully towards the slowly brightening sky. “And you told me it was a good place for escaping the real world for a bit. So I figured if you didn’t go home…”

The comment makes Alfie’s chest feel warm, despite the chill in the air. Leave it up to Tommy to remember every single little thing he says. He wonders what he did to deserve this man. Tommy seems to be under the impression that he’s the undeserving one in this relationship. It comes out in quiet little whispers during the bad nights, in between the nightmares. _Why do you put up with me?_ And Alfie always knows the implied meaning: why are you with someone so broken and useless? 

“You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, right?” he smiles and tugs a bit at Tommy’s hand, earning a scoff.

“You’re so full of it.” Tommy bumps his shoulder against Alfie’s, ducking his head a bit in a failed attempt to hide his reddening cheeks.

They walk for a bit before Alfie realises he’s had the unusual privilege of breathing clear air during one of these strolls.

“You can smoke if you’d like,” he grumbles, memories of his quite appalling behaviour in the office resurfacing.

“As if I’d ever need your permission,” Tommy quips with a smirk, but reaches into his inner pocket and fishes out a cigarette that he puts between his lips. A crease appears between his eyebrows as he se searches his other pockets for something else.

Without a word, Alfie reaches into his own and retrieves a lighter, cupping his hand around the cigarette to shield it from the wind. Tommy closes his eyes as he takes the first drag, looking entirely too pleased at the sensation.   

Alfie takes Tommy’s hand again. And for the first time in weeks, his chest feels light and his head is quiet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every fanfic author is allowed to write at least one fake-out dream sequence death! That's the rule! Hope you enjoyed it, and stay tuned for some more dramatic developments in next week's installment!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more! Thank you so much to everyone who left such lovely comments on the last chapter, I haven't gotten around to responding yet, but I'll get to it. Just know that they were hugely motivational.

                          

Tommy is woken up by a soft but familiarly scratchy kiss on the temple, and opens his eyes a bit to see Alfie sitting on the edge of the bed. It takes a moment of confusion before he realizes that it’s morning, and that he must’ve fallen asleep at last. After all those hours of staring into the darkness. 

“Morning, love.” Alfie smooths back his hair and Tommy curls up a little under the duvet, hiding from the chill in the room. Alfie is already dressed, he notes. 

“Morning-“ he buries his face in the pillow as a coughing fit comes over him. “Is the radiator broken?” he rasps out, peering up at Alfie as he continues to stroke his hair.

“No, just cold as fuck outside today,” Alfie says, and his eyes are soft as he looks down at Tommy. “You really should stay home with that cough. Bakery’s usually freezing when the weather’s like this. At least ‘till they get all the stills running. Old, large building with shit heating and all that.”

There was a time when concern like this would feel suffocating, but Tommy has somehow gotten over that particular hang up.   

“And I’m but a humble, concerned partner, with no medical training what so ever mind you, but I think you’d feel better if you stayed indoors for a day or two,” Alfie continues to coax. “I’ll come home early. Cook you something nice. Run you a bath…” He makes a quite convincing impression of a puppy. Absolutely impossible to refuse him things when he does that thing with his eyes.  

“Fine,” Tommy sighs, sitting up and shivering as the chill in the room prickles his skin. “Got a feeling you won’t take no for an answer.”   

“Might be right about that, sweetie.” Alfie rubs a warm palm over his arm, and it’s a feat that he even manages to get out of bed.  “Then again, I’ve got Eli here to back me up. Should you choose to be difficult.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Tommy mutters as he quickly begins to get dressed, already missing the warmth under the blankets. He definitely hasn’t made peace with having a fucking bodyguard in the house. Just having them across the street watching it should be enough. How Alfie suddenly got access to the neighbors’ house to allow for that to happen, Tommy doesn’t know. But apparently that’s not good enough anymore. 

“It’s nothing permanent, love.” Alfie comes up behind him and wraps him in a warm hug, effectively thwarting his attempts at buttoning his shirt. “Just to give me some peace of mind while we solve this thing.” 

Tommy snorts, but makes no comment, trying to remind himself how much calmer Alfie have become since he agreed to the upped security. And if this keeps him sane, Tommy will just have to put up with it. As long as he never has to see that look of despair on Alfie’s face again, knowing he’s the reason, it’s worth it. 

It doesn’t, however, mean that he has to like it.

“Something on your mind?” Alfie mutters in his ear. 

“Always.” Tommy nestles closer, shifting slightly in the embrace to bury his nose against Alfie’s neck. He allows himself to relax into the strength of his arms for a bit as Alfie holds him tighter. He’d like to freeze this moment, stay in it forever.

“Nothing you’d like to share?” Alfie’s hands stroke idly down his waist. 

“Well, right now I’m thinking you should get to the office.” Tommy cranes his neck and kisses his cheek. “So you can come back home.” 

“I could stay home. Take care of you instead. See, that’s always my number one priority.” 

“I’m going to work, and I have a very distinct feeling I won’t get much done if you’re home.” With that, Tommy reluctantly dislodges himself from Alfie’s embrace. He finishes buttoning his shirt and shrugs into the jacket Alfie holds up. 

Then he follows Alfie to the door. 

“Be nice to Eli now, Thomas,” Alfie chides softly as he pulls on his coat, before accepting the hat Tommy hands him. “A gentle soul, he is. And he’s just following orders. So try not to glare at him. Not everyone can handle scrutiny from those sharp eyes of yours.” 

“I’ll do my best.” Tommy turns to walk to the kitchen when a hand grabs his wrist and he’s pulled against Alfie’s chest.

“Where’s my kiss goodbye, eh?” Alfie grins and leans down to initiate this. Ignoring common sense, Tommy kisses him back. 

“I don’t understand how you can possibly want to kiss me when I’m coughing like this,” he complains and tries to clear his throat. Alfie just keeps smiling.    

“Won’t be seeing you for several unbearable hours, love. Need something to hold me over, don’t I?” Alfie kisses him again, and Tommy makes a feeble attempt at keeping it quick and chaste. But of course it’s absolutely impossible, and he soon finds himself parting his lips to allow for their tongues to meet. The kiss heats him up from the inside, making him forget about the cold for a little while. 

But then he suddenly has to cough, and just barely manages to break the kiss and turn his head away. Coughing straight into Alfie’s mouth feels like a highly unpleasant experience for them both.

“Sorry.” he mutters and smothers another cough with his arm. “Fuck, I’m bloody disgusting,”

Alfie kisses his forehead. “Never, love.” 

It’s indeed freezing outside, which becomes abundantly clear when Alfie opens the door and steps outside. Tommy lingers in the doorway, watching him take those few steps down onto the street.

“Go on, in you go. We need to get rid of that cough so we can do some proper kissing.” Alfie waves a hand to usher him away from the door. “And some other activities, solely reserved for healthy people.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” Tommy tries to go inside, he really does.

“I’ll be counting the hours, darling.” Alfie gives him one last wave, before walking up to the car. An icy gust of wind makes a shiver run down his spine, and Tommy forces himself to close the door.

Right, now he just needs to clear his head enough to actually get something done.

In the kitchen, and he finds Eli seated in his usual chair in the corner, turned towards the window overlooking the street. Tommy quickly straightens his features, wiping the love-struck grin from his face.

“Morning, Mister Shelby,” Eli says with a nod and a gentle little smile. “Working from home today?”

Tommy nods in confirmation and pours tea into the cup Alfie has put out for him. Quietly going back to his book, Eli lets him go about his business in peace, thankfully aware that Tommy prefers it that way. 

Not in the mood for company, he then retreats into the office, busying himself with paperwork to the best of his abilities. It usually manages to occupy his mind completely, but these past few weeks he’s found it increasingly hard to focus. Other thoughts are constantly demanding his attention, clawing at his brain. That he’s running on just a few hours of sleep isn’t helping. And every time he closes his eyes, he can feel the crushing grip of long fingers around his neck.

But it’s all going to be fine. He’ll fix this. Sabini has agreed to meeting in three days, hopefully that will shift the power imbalance. Striking deals is his strong suit, after all.

And hopefully, he’ll be able to sleep again after that. 

Frustrated with his lack of focus, Tommy sternly looks down at the papers. The numbers blur together and he blinks a few times, trying to clear his eyes. He closes them for a moment, just to gather himself again. The familiar images instantly begin flittering by behind his eyelids.

_That cold, calculating gaze, unrelenting hands…_

Without meaning to, he finds himself reaching up to rub the faded bruises around his neck, taking an extra deep breath only to remind himself that he can. When he realizes what he’s just done, he quickly removes the hand and scolds himself for indulging in such a pathetic display of weakness.

_The feeling of being helpless, cornered…_

Shaking his head, he forces the thoughts away. He can’t let this affect him. Alfie with his uncanny perception will pick up on it, and he doesn’t want to bother him with this. Not now, when the crease between his eyebrows isn’t as sharp anymore, and the jokes are more frequent again.

And the thought of the tormented look on his face, how he cried in Tommy’s arms… it’s enough to make him dismiss his own worries. As long as Alfie is happy, so is Tommy.

He’s used to this: sleepless nights, intrusive thoughts and a constant pressure over his chest. He can shoulder it. As long as Alfie is happy-

_Alfie’s eyes, filled with tears. The sobs echoing against the stone walls. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault and he needs to fix this or he’ll lose him…._

Tommy forces himself to get back to the papers.

 ...

Alfie realizes he’s become spoilt, always having Tommy around the office. Days without him there seem infinitely dreary and long. But at least it’s a relief to know that he’s at home, resting. Or, not resting of course, but at least is not wandering about in the cold air. 

But there’s no point to Alife being at the office if he doesn’t get anything done, so now he’ll stop thinking about Tommy and concentrate on… whatever he was doing. He looks back down at the neat piles of paper on Tommy’s desk, trying to remember which one he was searching for. As he’s flipping through the ledger in hopes of just accidentally stumbling upon the right one, a piece of paper falls out and falls to the floor before he can catch it. 

He picks it up, discovering that it’s not a paper at all, but a photograph. To his surprise, he’s met by his own eyes staring back at him, framed by a slightly less rugged face. It’s the photo they took before he shipped out, and he’s clad in his uniform. He vaguely remembers Tommy finding the photo at some point and giving an appreciative comment. To which he most likely responded with a joke about men in uniforms. 

And apparently Tommy kept it. 

The realisation makes a smile spread across his face. 

Right then, he decides that he’s going home. Now. 

The phone rings and he gestures for Ollie to pick up, already going to grab his coat 

“I’m not in,” Alfie grunts, heading for the door. But the look on Ollie’s face makes him stop in his tracks. 

“You need to take this,” Ollie says, face ashen, and something about the tone in combination with the unhealthy colour deters Alfie from pointing out that he’s the one giving orders around here. Sighing, he walks back to the desk, picks up the earpiece and waves for Ollie to get out. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mister Solomons.” 

There’s something odd about hearing a voice not entirely unfamiliar, and yet not familiar enough to place at once. Blurry faces flitter by in his mind as he tries to connect the voice to one. 

“Ay, last time I checked. And who am I speaking to?” 

A throaty chuckle is heard, and he knows the answer before the voice decides to divulge to who it belongs.

“I’m disappointed, Solomons, thought we were closer than that.” 

“Changretta, finally learned how to use a bloody telephone I hear.” Alfie sits down heavily in his chair. “Hope this means the unprompted fucking home visits can stop. To what do we owe the enormous honour?” 

There’s a pause, and Alfie can almost hear Changretta chew on that twig that seems to be permanently stuck to his lips. Alfie would like to take that and shove it down his fucking throat.

“I thought you were a smart man, Mister Solomons,” Changretta finally says. “Figured this brutish facade was just that. But perhaps you’re just as thick as you look. If you have to ask, about my reasons for calling, I mean.” 

Alfie rolls his eyes, but can’t help feeling a twinge of unease in the pit of his stomach. Just at the notion of Changretta calling him in the first place –the man’s opinions of Alfie’s intelligence are of no importance. 

“A strange thing happened to one of my deliveries,” Changretta continues without waiting for an answer. “A little explosion in the motor of one of the trucks. Took half the fucking warehouse with it. You don’t happen to know anything about that?” 

Alfie is honestly puzzled for a moment, before remembering that yeah, he did order his men to put a stop to it. But it was such a routine little display of power that he’s forgotten about it. Everyday occurrence around here. 

“Yeah, well that’s London for you, Mister Changretta.” He props his feet on the desk in front of him. “Should be more careful with your delivery schedule. Not let people know when you’re moving your shit. Bad things are bound to happen.” He pauses. Runs his tongue over the back of his teeth. “See, this isn’t really your turf now, is it, mate?” 

“Oh, but isn’t it?” He can picture Changretta smirking and decides that this conversation needs to end now. 

“Not that I don’t enjoy listening to your ridiculous accent, it’s an absolute fucking riot, but is there a point to this call?” Alfie usually isn’t one to cut himself short, but he has absolutely no interest in listening to this arrogant fucker.

And he was just on his way home to Tommy.

“Oh, you really don't know, do you?” Changretta. “See this is a family business, this operation I run. And thanks to your little stunt, I’ll be forced to send my younger brother home in a coffin.” His voice is perfectly void of emotions. As if he’s merely discussing the weather. “You really should have better insight in who runs my deliveries. Our mother will be heartbroken.” 

Alfie feels himself go completely rigid. This was a factor he overlooked. 

Changretta drones on in the background. “And I just don’t want any misconceptions about who is to blame for the... rather unpleasant series of events that’s about to- “

Alfie can’t even hear him. 

Fuck, why didn’t he know about this? 

Obviously, he knew there’d be casualties, but he hadn’t anticipated family members to be involved. You don’t just go and fucking kill the opposing side’s family, unless you want absolute hell to break loose. 

And you don’t do it when you have exactly one person in the entire world that they’ll come after.

Cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck as it dawns on him: he’s made a mistake.

“It’s the way of the world, innit?” he cuts Changretta off, fighting to control his voice. “Our world at least. Should’ve thought of that. Bringing fucking family into this. Bloody hell. Stupid decision if I ever heard one.”

“Remember those words,” Changretta says coldly. “They might appear ironic, given some time.”  

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ \- the word just keep repeating in his head, all while Alfie finds himself talking.

“Did you know that in the dark ages, right, one of the punishments you could receive for the gravest misdeeds… murder, rape, what have you… was to have a cage filled with rats strapped to your chest,” he says, feeling his mouth move on its own accord. “And then as the little fuckers tried to escape, they would claw their way through your body. I’ve always wondered about that…. Could be an interesting thing to try. Got plenty of rats ‘round here I recon.”  

Changretta just offers a disdainful scoff at this longwinded threat.   

“Well, it’s been a pleasure,” he then says. “But might I suggest that you go home and look after that little pet of yours? They get so anxious when they’re left alone for too long.”  

That’s when Alfie finally loses it. “I fucking swear that I’ll-“ _rip your arm clean off and then shove it down your throat if you touch him._  

He’s interrupted.“I’ll see you Alfie. Soon.” 

The line goes dead. 

Alfie doesn’t put the phone down, instead dialing the number to his house. He can feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat. 

_Please, for all that is good and holy in this world pick up…_

When seven signals have gone through without an answer, he drops the earpiece and leaves it dangling as he heads for the door. He calls Ollie and two other men to him for back up. It’s apparently quite clear that he’s on the verge of shooting someone, because none of them even ask what’s going on, following his steps to the car without a word.

 ... 

The clock in the hallway strikes two, and Tommy realizes he’s completely lost track of time. He should be hungry by now, but his stomach gives no indication of wanting any food. The stress wraps itself around his chest, down over his ribs and stomach like a rope. Doesn’t really leave any room for hunger. 

But he has to eat. Has to sleep. Has to keep functioning like a normal person.   

Eli is still in the kitchen, with the same book in his hands. 

“This must be pretty fucking drab,” Tommy comments as he puts the kettle on. It’s not often he finds himself initiating small talk, but he feels the need to alleviate the strangeness of having one of their employees in the house.

“Not at all,” Eli responds easily with that friendly softness to his voice. Tommy begins to understand why Alfie picked him for this. Hard not to like the man. 

He finds leftover bread that Alfie baked a few days ago and cuts a thin slice that he begins to eat listlessly, tearing it into smaller pieces that feel less daunting. 

“It’s actually sort of… nice,” Eli continues. “To see Solomons home. Never imagined this is what it'd look like.” 

Deciding to let the other man do the talking, Tommy tries to just focus on eating. The pieces of bread are growing in his mouth, lodging themselves in his throat no matter how small bites he takes. He can hear Alfie in his head, saying something about ‘pecking like a bird’ at the food.

 “I mean, I’ve known him for… must be close to ten years now. I don’t know about him, but I’d consider him a friend. And I’ve never been here.” Eli’s dark eyes drift across the room. “Think he likes to keep them separate,” he adds. “Work and… his home life.

Tommy gives up on the food and pushes the plate away, lighting a cigarette instead. When he offers one to Eli, he accepts it with that familiarly mild smile. 

They sit in silence for a little bit, both caught up in enjoying the first drags on the cigarette. 

“You're very good for him,” Eli suddenly says. “Think this is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.” 

“ _Now_ you’re overstepping,” Tommy states, both eyebrows shooting up at the statement. Eli raises his hands in a disarming gesture. 

“Sorry. It's just... I know this can’t be easy. Having some man living in your house. But I want you to know where I stand,” he says earnestly. “Make the situation less uncomfortable.” 

Unable to give a response to this, Tommy pretends to be out of tea and gets up to refill the half full cup. He’s not used to people speaking this way. Conversations like this –sincere, openhearted- is something he only engages in with Alfie. But he strangely enough appreciates the sentiment, still.   

When he turns around again, Eli has focused his attention on the window overlooking the street, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as something catches his eye. He grabs the flashlight on the table and signals something to the house across the street. Tommy still finds that amusing –it feels more like two children playing than anything else- but there’s nothing playful about the action now. 

Eli stands up and firmly pulls Tommy away from the window, the soft features hardening into a frown. 

“Ezra just signaled that a car parked outside,” he says quietly when Tommy raises an eyebrow in question. “Can’t see it myself, but it must be right down the street.”   

“Hardly anything strange about that,” Tommy points out. Eli leans forward enough to catch a glimpse of the street, one of his long arms still firmly pinning Tommy against the pantry door. 

The tension in the room keeps Tommy from pushing it away, despite the humiliation in being treated like some helpless child.  

“Fuck,” Eli suddenly curses, and with one hand firmly wrapped around Tommy’s upper arm, he drags him out into the hallway and towards the back of the house, pulling his gun.  

Tommy doesn’t need any further explanations to understand something is wrong. He rips himself loose the second Eli has pushed him into the living room to take his own gun out. 

Eli slams the door shut and locks it. “We’re about to have company.” 

Tommy cocks the gun as he opens the cabinet where they keep some of the heavier firearms. “How many?” 

“At least six,” Eli says grimly, catching the rifle Tommy throws to him. “Adam and Ezra should be on their way but-“ 

But they’re still outnumbered. Fuck, Changretta really isn’t taking any chances…

Tommy’s brain kicks into gear as he runs through their options. There’s a window overlooking the yard –a possible escape route- but when Tommy looks down, he finds two men positioned there. So much for that plan. He vaguely hears the phone ring out in the hallway, but the signals are quickly drowned out by the unmistakable sound of machine guns.

It’s right about then Tommy realizes they’re fucked.

... 

Alfie drives while his men sit in the back, because it’s all he can do to avoid ripping out his own hair, and anyone out on the London streets that day is definitely in danger of being rammed by the car. He desperately tries to calm his overheating brain. It’s just some fucking scare tactic, surely. It has to be. Changretta is an arrogant piece of shit, it would be just like him to pull something like that: call and make vague threats, but not actually do anything. 

But this tiny, flickering hope dies in his chest when he sees the house. 

“Fucking hell…” He vaguely hears Ishmael curse, the sound almost overpowered by the ringing that’s filling his ears. The street looks like a fucking warzone, facades littered with bullet holes. Alfie swerves the car up on the sidewalk and jumps out without even turning the engine off. 

The front door has been blown open, hanging off its hinges, and the hallway looks as if a storm has ripped through it. It reeks of blood.

“Tommy?  Alfie calls out and nearly trips over the body sprawled on the floor. No one he recognizes. His men scatter to search through the house while Alfie takes the stairs in just a few long strides. 

_This is just another nightmare._

“Tommy?” He checks all the rooms in quick succession. They’re all empty. The whole floor is completely fucking empty _. This is another nightmare_. Has to be. There’s no way this is happening. He had people _inside the fucking house_ \- it can’t- 

“Boss! Down here!”

Heart firmly lodged in his throat now, Alfie returns to the devastation that is the first floor, following Ishmael’s voice into the living room. He finds him cradling a body, while David attempts to stop the blood flow from a wound in the person’s thigh. It’s not Tommy. Neither is the person lying crumpled in the corner, with half their head splattered on the wall. 

No sign of him.

 _Any second now, he’ll wake up from this._  

“Oi, Eli!” He kneels next to the prone form, giving his cheek a light slap. “Hey, you with us?” 

Groaning, Eli squeezes his eyes open to squint up at him.

 _He’ll be in their bed._  

“Where’s Tommy?” Alfie grabs his face in an attempt to keep his slipping attention. 

 _Tommy will be right there next to him, whispering soothing words in that soft voice of his._  

“They were too many. Had… fucking machine guns,” Eli slurs and blinks slowly. “Like being at the fucking front again.”

 _And he’ll wrap his arms around his back, curl up right next to him so that Alfie can feel his heartbeat_.

“Ezra is in the kitchen. Or at least what’s left of him.” Ollie says from the doorway.

“Yeah, fucking machine guns,” Eli’s voice trails off. 

“Eli, where is Tommy?” Alfie repeats his question, putting emphasis on every word in an attempt to get through to him.

_Tommy is in his arms, lips pressed against Alfie’s ear as he tells him it’ll all be okay._

“He put up one hell of a fight,” Eli mutters. “Always surprised by that. What with him being… so small and everything.” His eyes slip closed again, face growing a shade whiter. “Yeah, got a lot of fight in him, that boy.” 

“Boss, we’ve got to get him to a hospital,” David says, still fighting to stop the bleeding. Eli’s hand shoots up suddenly, grasping Alfie’s wrist. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps out, a new sharpness gracing his eyes for a brief moment as they bore into Alfie’s, before his eyelids fall shut. His head tips limply to the side as he passes out.

Alfie finds himself staying on the floor as Ishmael and David heft Eli up in their arms and carry him out, his legs too weak to support him. 

And everything is spinning.  

This is his fault. Tommy is gone, and it’s his fault.

 He did everything he could possibly think of, and still it wasn’t enough. 

It’s ironic how the world works. He’s pulled so many reckless stunts, double crossed people, killed in cold blood… and none of that has really mattered. Sure, there’s been the odd explosion at a pub. Stolen cargo. A broken rib or two. But it all seems trivial. 

Just one miscalculation… 

He finally had something worth protecting, and he fucked it up.

A hand squeezes his shoulder, and he hears Ollie’s voice. 

“This was on the kitchen table.” 

He extends the white envelope to Alfie who accepts it without a word. 

His whole body feels numb. 

Inside the envelope, he finds a white card with the image of a black hand. A single line of text is written above it, giving an address Alfie instantly recognizes as one of the warehouses by the waterfront. Then a time. Three days from now. Followed by the word, ‘alone´ 

His hand curls into a fist, crumpling the paper into a ball as he gets to his feet. There’s been enough of this bullshit now. 

“Ollie-“ his voice sounds strange to his own ears. It's remarkable that it even works when it feels like his entire abdomen is just a frozen, solid block. “I need you to get the men –the ones who can actually handle a fucking gun, yeah? Not the halfwits who lacks the ability to even walk in a straight line. Get them into my office. I’ll be there in an hour.” 

He gets to his feet, stalking out into the hallway with Ollie trailing behind him. 

“You sure you know-“

“If I have to repeat myself, those will be the last words you ever fucking hear,” Alfie growls without looking up from the phone as he turns the leaver. “Go. Now.” 

Ollie is out the door in moments.

In the earpiece, the signals go through. Then, there’s a familiar voice on the line. Alfie clears his throat before speaking.

“Arthur, grab John, get in that wreck you call a car and come down to London.”

Arthur asks questions of course, which he answers with numb detachment. And Arthur quickly grasps the gravity of the situation, and any protests he might have had dies out. 

Right then, Alfie feels nothing but cold determination. 

If it’s a fucking war Changretta wants, it’s a war he’ll get. 

Alfie has nothing left to lose.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, every fanfic author is allowed a kidnapping plot. Of course I had to write that trope at least once in my life. 
> 
> I've gotten way to into this storyline, so it's possible the next chapter will be out in less than a week. We'll see. There's angst coming up! Let me know about your feelings and general emotions! xx


	4. Chapter 4

Tommy is floating in an endless sea of darkness. Weightless, unable to move, or even open his eyes. It feels like being in that stage between dream and reality, when the mind is flickering into awareness, but the body has yet to catch up. He fights his heavy eyelids, and manages to squeeze his eyes open. Then he blinks, thinking they must somehow still be closed, because everything is dark.

Everything is dark and he can’t move.

The tunnel has caved in and buried him- 

The panic washes over him like an icy wave, his heart swelling to block his entire throat. He coughs and gasps for air, limbs flailing as he breaks the invisible bonds that kept him chained. There never were any rocks weighing him down. A tiny sliver of logic breaks through the panic: he needs to calm down. Needs to gain control over his breathing or he’ll pass out again. Curling up into a tight ball, he covers his head with his arms and forces himself to count. In, hold it, out- he’s safe like this. Nothing can hurt him. It’s a soothing lie he tries to believe. Alfie’s voice fills his ears, telling him how to breathe. He just has to listen to it. 

In, hold it, out- Slowly… Everything will be alright-

_Just breathe._

_Everything will be alright…_

_In, hold it, out-_

Finally, the adrenaline ebbs out, leaving him shaking on the cold floor. He experimentally moves and stretches his trembling limbs, searching for injuries. There’s a definite ache throughout his body, as if he’s taken a beating, but nothing worse. Searching his blurry memories, he vaguely recalls the last moments before the darkness: the sound of machineguns, fighting violently against too many pairs of hands, the smell of chloroform. That last puzzle piece explains the lapse in memory, at least. 

His head clears slightly, and his eyes adjust to the compact darkness enough to make out the objects closest to him. He’s in windowless room, filled with crates and cargo boxes. Some sort of basement then. Maybe in a warehouse. There’s a steady dripping somewhere behind one of the walls, echoing against the concrete. A leaking pipe maybe. He listens for other sounds, something that could tell him where he is. A train, a car engine, the bustling of a factory... But it’s all silent, except for the dripping. And the occasional crack as the pipes move.

Getting to his feet, he stumblingly makes his way over the floor, hands outstretched. He reaches the wall within mere seconds. The room is small. Soon enough, he finds a metal door and he twists the handle. It’s locked of course. But the room is full of shit –there has to be something he can use. A piece of scrap metal, a wire to pick the lock with… just… something. He starts searching, mind completely set on this. 

It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed before he finally has to give up. All the boxes are empty. He curses out loud, immediately regretting it as the sound of his own voice echoes in the room. No use doing this. He needs to save his strength. 

Returning to his corner, he sits down and pulls his knees up to his chest in an attempt to preserve some heat. The room is freezing, and they’ve taken all his clothing except his trousers and undershirt. He cradles one of his bare feet between his hands, trying to rub some heat back into it. The action makes his thoughts drift to Alfie; if they’d been at home right now, he would’ve taken Tommy’s feet and massaged them until they were warm again. But he can’t allow himself to think of that now –he needs to focus on how to fix this.

Fuck, if only it weren’t so cold. It makes it hard to think. 

He tries to suppress the trembling, curling up a little tighter into his protective ball. It’s a rather pathetic display of weakness, but he can’t really afford to do anything else. If he gets colder, there’s a definite risk the cough will turn into a fever, and he can’t let that happen. He needs to rest. Keep his head clear. So that when the right moment comes, he can do something to change this hopeless situation he’s ended up in.

In an attempt to distract himself from everything –the cold, the darkness… the locked door- he considers what prompted Changretta to suddenly do a thing like this. This wasn’t his original plan, can’t have been. He would be here then, gloating and giving one of his obnoxious speeches. Something has changed, made him go off course. Tommy could use that to his advantage, he just doesn’t know how, yet. But he’ll figure it out. He always does.

Right now, all he has to do is bide his time…

...

Time passes slowly. Or quickly. Impossible to tell in the dark. But he can tell that it passes, because he becomes thirsty. Tired. Feels his thoughts slip from the logical –how to find a way out, why Changretta has put him here- to imagining increasingly frightening scenarios. 

The air will run out. 

He’ll never make it out of this alive. 

_He’ll never see Alfie again._

There’s a particularly large crate by the opposite wall. Tommy stares at it, focusing his attention on all the little nails holding it together. He counts them. Tries to not think about how close the wall is. There are forty of them. He counts them again, only finding thirty-nine this time for some reason. So he starts over. Again and again. In a desperate attempt to keep his thoughts under control. 

He keeps doing it until his eyes begin to sting, telling him he desperately needs to rest. And so he tries to sleep, laying down on the damp floor and closing his eyes. If he just gets some rest, the fog that’s clouding his mind will fade and he’ll be able to think again. But the chill has crept through his skin and settled in his bones, making it impossible to relax. Cradling his arms close to his chest, he blows on his icy fingers, letting out a rattling cough as the stale air fills his lungs. But he repeats the action, still, desperate to find some relief from the cold.

He doesn’t fall asleep. But he wavers somewhere in between, slipping in and out of some middle land between dream and reality. The room fills with voices. The scraping of shovels. And the stale air suddenly smells of blood and dirt- He refuses to acknowledge any of it. It’s not real.

It never is.

…

When Tommy opens his eyes again, the crate is a bit closer.

He finds thirty-four nails before he loses count and has to start over. Maybe there only were thirty-four? He can’t seem to remember. The alarming dryness in his throat tells him that more time must’ve passed.

His breathing echoes in the room, and his heartbeat is too loud in his own ears. With every passing second – _minute, hour, week_ \- it seems to pound harder against his ribcage. Faster. He’s standing by that edge again, staring straight down into the abyss. And Alfie isn’t here to pull him away this time. Isn’t here to catch him if he falls.

It’s just him, in the dark. Alone.

Surrounded by walls that are somehow moving closer each time he blinks.

He tries to focus on just breathing. Nothing else. As long as he’s breathing, as long as he’s taking calm, steady breaths, it’s all okay. It’s just four walls and a ceiling. If Alfie were here, he’d tell him so. _It’s okay, love, I’ve got you. Just breathe._ He tries imagining the sound of his voice, his heartbeat, the warmth of his body right next to Tommy’s.

He closes his eyes again. It’s easier to fall into the fantasy then.

…

The thirst is becoming unbearable, and it should give him an idea of how much time has passed. But he can’t seem to draw any conclusions; his brain is too foggy. It’s not good

Why is no one coming? Why have they just… left him here? He wants to call out, demand someone’s attention. Better that Changretta comes down here and just shoots him than having to lie here alone in the dark. 

The nails are beginning to appear blurry. One, two, three- His thoughts are sluggish, scattered. He loses count at just fifteen now, unable to focus any longer than that. But he can’t remember how many there were to begin with anyway, so it doesn’t matter. 

What if they’ve just left him here to die? What if he’ll never get out, and the last thing he’ll ever see are those nails

 _Cold, dark mud, stretching for miles on end on all sides. He can almost see the weight of it, all the thousands of tons of heavy rocks that threaten to plunge down and crush his ribcage_.

And the last thing he’ll hear is the dripping in the pipes. 

 _The sound of shovels and pickaxes._  

The walls are so close now, and the ceiling is lower, hanging down over him as if it’s about to cave in. He wraps his arms around his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he focuses his slipping attention on his breathing again. He has to keep it together. He tries to picture Alfie, smiling at him from across the kitchen table, eyes shining and crinkling in the corners, the way Tommy loves. It’s strange to think that he’s made someone that happy. Since the war, all he ever seem to do is suck the joy out of everyone around him. As if he left all the good pieces of himself in the dirt back in France. But Alfie made him feel like maybe there was still something- 

And now he’s going to die here, without ever having told him that. 

He’s let everyone down. Alfie. His family. It’s all he ever does.   

But he’s… he’s tried so hard to make things better for them. _Yeah, but just trying isn’t good enough now, is it?_  

No, he’ll get out of this. He needs to do things right by them. Do better. He promised, didn’t he?

Fuck, he must be such a disappointment. His father’s words ring in his ears, louder than the other voices _: I always knew you’d never amount to anything._  

_All you ever do is hurt people._

Maybe they’ll be glad to be rid of him.

Tommy sits up sharply, pushing the unwelcomed thoughts as far away as possible. The motion leaves him reeling, head spinning as his weak body fights to stay upright. But he needs to do something with his hands or he’ll go insane.

 _You already have._  

Crawling on all fours, he lets his fingers roam the surface of the floor. There has to be something… something useful in this room. Useful in what way, he isn’t sure. All he knows is that if he doesn’t move, if he doesn’t occupy himself with something, he’ll lose it completely.

_You already have._

His hands trace the outlines of rough concrete, and suddenly his fingers meet with the smooth, familiar surface of a glass bottle. Just the bottom of it, but it has sharp, jagged edges. Something to defend himself with. Against what? The voices maybe…  A sob in relief escape his throat before he can stop it. Reverting back to his corner, he curls up in a ball and clutches the piece of glass to his chest. It feels like a lifeline. The only real thing in the darkness. 

…

He has completely lost track of time.

They’ve just left him here to die. Who are _they_? He can’t remember. Why is he here? Can’t remember that either.

It’s possible that he’s already dead. It could very well be hell, this place. And he’s got plenty of reasons to be there.   

He goes back to staring at that crate, counting the nails again. One, two, three, four- How many were there to begin with? Why did he start counting them? One, two, three- It seems like such a useless thing to do. One, two… It’s closer now than it was to begin with. Much closer. It moves when he shuts his eyes; he can hear the walls shifting, the concrete cracking as they close in, inch by inch.

He’s so cold. He’d do anything to feel warm again.

To not be alone.

His fingers trace the smooth surface of the glass. 

… 

He doesn’t dare opening his eyes again. The room is so small that if he reaches out, if even just an inch, he’ll hit the wall. Just the expansion of his ribcage as he breathes is too much; the ceiling touches his shoulder every time he fills his lungs. The air will run out soon. He’ll suffocate. Die in this dark basement- this _dark tunnel a hundred miles below the surface surrounded by mud-_

He makes himself small, small, so small that he becomes nothing…

… 

A pickaxe is working away at the muddy wall in front of him. Soon it’ll break through. Tap, tap. It echoes in his head and scrapes against his ears. He should be working on the tunnel, but his shovel is gone. He wonders where Danny and Freddie are. Maybe he’s sick, and they’ve told him to stay here and rest while they work themselves further down. It feels like he’s sick. Cold. He’s so cold. Tap, tap, the pickaxe sings against the rocks. But when it reaches him, he’s got something sharp in his hand that he can use. Can’t remember where he got it from… 

...

A new, unfamiliar sound reaches his ears. The creaking of a door opening. Voices. New voices. Light fills the room. Fresh air. 

It’s like waking up from a fever dream, and he remembers. Where he is. Why he’s here.

He slips the piece of glass up his sleeve right before two sets of hands reach down and roughly pull him to his feet.

 ...

Changretta is late. Just like him, the arrogant fucker, to come and fucking go as he pleases. Alfie tightens the grip on his cane in a familiar gesture that usually serves to ground him a bit, watching his breath create white mist as he exhales. 

Sometimes, this life of theirs really is just a parody of itself. Sure, Alfie has a flare for the dramatic, but isn’t this a bit excessive, meeting in some gigantic warehouse in the middle of the night?

The building is silent, and he prays it’ll stay that way, that Ishmael and the others have the sense to remain completely fucking still in landscape of crates and parked vehicles behind him. If Changretta catches the slightest sign that he’s not alone, this whole thing will go to hell. It might still. He gives another glance to the balcony that stretches high up in the air alongside one of the walls. It’s too far away. No way in hell that Arthur can get a clear shot from there… He pushes this thought away. No room for doubt now. It’ll just have to fucking work. 

“Evening, Mister Solomons.”

Alfie’s attention snaps back to the large entranceway facing the water. Changretta comes strolling into the warehouse accompanied by two men, one armed with a revolver and the other holding a metal pipe that Alfie firmly dislikes the look of. Fucking ridiculous choice of weapon too… Between them, they’re dragging a pale figure, and his heart clenches painfully at the sight. Tommy hangs limply in their grip, his bare feet unable to keep up with the pace. 

Feeling his hand twitch as he fights the urge to pull his gun and shoot them all right then, Alfie grips his cane harder. A hole through the head is all that stunt would lead to. 

And there’s been enough idiotic mistakes now. 

“Ah, isn’t this nice?” Changretta says, opening his arms in greeting. “Been a long time since I was in one of these.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Tend to leave this sort of thing to my employees.”

There’s something very wrong with this man.  

“Thought we agreed to meeting alone?” Alfie says sharply. “Don’t know how it works in that shithole you come from, but that’s usually the way we do it here.” He just runs his mouth, trying to catch a glimpse of Tommy’s face, see how much damage they’ve done… “I come alone, and you do the same- a question of honor, really-“ 

“Needed some help with the cargo,” Changretta snickers, giving a nod in Tommy’s direction. “I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” His mouth twitches in a display of disgust, and Alfie grits his teeth hard enough to crack the molars. Clearing his throat, he ignores Changretta in favor of Tommy.    

“Tommy, you alright?” 

It’s an idiotic question of course, in light of how utterly broken Tommy looks right at that moment. But Alfie just wants to hear his voice. At the sound of his name, Tommy raises his head and blinks sluggishly. His eyes search out Alfie’s, and Alfie meets them steadily, trying to look nothing but reassuring. Tommy’s eyes are remarkably sharp under the veil of lashes, and it ignites a tiny spark of hope in his chest. Not broken. Exhausted, but not broken. He coughs wetly before answering.

“Yeah, don’t-” The words turn into a strangled groan as the pipe collides with his stomach, and Tommy doubles over in pain. Alfie tries not to wince.  

“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” the man who delivered the blow hisses, raising the weapon again and leaving for his companion to hold Tommy upright.

“Oi, we’re supposed to be negotiating here,” Alfie barks. “No need for any violence.” Mildly relieved to see that his words have effect, he looks back at Changretta. “So, we’re here. Both of us. In this fucking dump. So if you just hand over Thomas, I’m sure we can all just go home and forget about this little incident-” He squares his jaw, fingers combing through the beard. “I’ll even forgive smashing my uncle’s old clock. Liked that thing, I did. But it’s all worldly matters, right?”

None of it matters if he gets to have Tommy in his arms again. 

“Look at you, making demands,” Luca chuckles. “Think that I’ll call the shots here.”

“What _shots_ would you like to call then?” Alfie feels his knuckles whiten around the cane. 

He needs to drag this out long enough for Arthur to get a clear shot. But Changretta is standing unnervingly close to Tommy, and the margins aren’t really on their side…  

“It’s quite simple, really-” Changretta reaches into his pocket for one of those stupid fucking toothpicks. ”See, I’m going to put a bullet right between those pretty blue eyes.” He gives Tommy a nod, which is rewarded by an ice cold glare. “And you-“ he points the toothpick in Alfie’s direction. “Are going to stand there and think about past sins.” 

Closing his lips around the toothpick, Changretta twirls it as they stare each other down.  

“Think this is how it’s done, eh, Changretta?” Alfie widens his stance slightly, boring his eyes into the other man’s. “You come here, to my fucking city yeah? Barge into my house and smash half of my worldly possessions- And recon you’ll just walk away unscratched?” _You come into my house, take the man I love away from me, and think there’s any chance in hell that you’ll get away with it?_ “See, to anyone else that would just be fucking unacceptable. Though unlike you I’m a very forgiving man.” He allows himself a glance at Tommy, who is watching him with weary eyes. “So I’m willing to give you…  yeah, what would be an acceptable prize? A percentage of the racecourse earnings? Shares in the business?” Tommy’s lips have gone an alarming shade of blue. Must be absolutely freezing “– In exchange for my business associate’s continued relative health.” 

Something glints in Changretta’s eyes. A sudden flash of rage that bursts through the cracks in the suave façade. “The fucking nerve of you,” he snarls through gritted teeth, fingers releasing the toothpick to make a jab in his direction. “Trying to negotiate the prize on my brother’s life. Your pikey whore doesn’t even _come close_ to making up for it.” Letting out a disdainful scoff, he regains control of his features. “But he’s all you’ve got. So he’ll just have to do.” 

He gives a nod to the man holding the metal pipe, and Alfie tenses up as a muscular arm swings the weapon against Tommy’s ribs, making his entire body curl inwards on itself in pain. Two more jabs in quick succession, and then the henchman lets up. 

“Keep going.” Changretta just spares him a glance, keeping his eyes on Alfie to watch his reaction. “Make him scream.”

Alfie has never seen anyone enjoy another human’s suffering like this. 

Tommy barely makes a sound as the blows rain down on him. A hitch in the raspy breathing. A stifled gasp. But nothing more. It seems to rile Changretta up . Alfie watches the scene unfold with maddening helplessness.

“Tell me to shoot him.” Changretta says coldly, staring straight at Alfie. “Just say the words and I’ll spare him this.” 

Tommy’s ribs break with the next blow. It feels like he can see the bones cave inwards. Changretta pulls his gun, looking expectantly at Alfie.

Alfie’s throat has closed up. 

He never thought it could be so loud, the sound of hard metal against a fragile, human body. It’s never been this loud before, surely.

When the pipe hits the soft part of his stomach, a high pitched whimper finally escapes Tommy, and it breaks Alfie.

“Stop, bloody hell, stop-“ he can hear the desperation in his own voice. “What do you want? You can have the business. The whole fucking thing.” The words just pour from his mouth and knows he’s blowing this. But he’s already shown his hand, and he’s out of cards. “Every fucking racecourse in London-“ 

The one fucking negotiation his life that actually matters, and he’s blowing it- 

Changretta holds up a hand, and his henchman backs down. Tommy just hangs limply in the grip of his companion, head bowed and shoulders sagging.   

“Wasn’t that nice to hear?” Changretta sneers and winds his fingers into the mop of dark hair to force his head up. “Every racecourse in London… for a good fuck. You really must be something else in bed. Too bad I didn’t get to experience it.” 

Tommy takes a raspy breath, struggling to focus his gaze on the other man. 

“Fuck you,” he rasps out, spitting a mouthful of blood at his feet.

“Strange choice for your last words.” Changretta cocks the gun, puts it against Tommy’s forehead and- 

Everything suddenly happens at once. 

Alfie hears himself cry out a desperate no, hand reaching for his gun, just as a bullet whistles past Changretta’s shoulder and buries itself in the floor a few feet away. It draws his attention away from Tommy.

And in the brief moment of disarray, the man holding Tommy loses focus, letting his hands slip.    

One moment is all it takes. 

With a strength Alfie can’t fathom how he can possess, Tommy twists out of his captor’s grip, whirls around and slashes something across his throat, all in one impossibly agile motion. A fountain of blood sprays down onto the grimy floor, and the man collapses. 

Alfie has never been quicker to reach for his gun and throws the shot without fully aiming. But it hits its target, and the second man joins the first on the floor. Changretta takes a shot at Tommy. He misses. Tommy throws himself at the significantly larger man, tackling him to the ground and the pair struggle as Alfie runs towards them. A bullet shatters a cargo box next to him, narrowly missing his head, and he’s is forced to turn around to take down the perpetrator. 

Absolute chaos has erupted in the warehouse. His ears pick up shouts in both English and Italian and shadows are flashing by in the labyrinth of cargo as both sides run for cover. Apparently, he’s not the only one who brought backup. The gunfire thunders against the high ceiling and metal walls, making it impossible to distinguish where it comes form   

But he hears the shot being fired right behind him, and his heart clenches as he turns to face the inevitable.      

The sight isn’t the one he expected. 

Tommy is standing over Changretta’s unmoving body, gun in hand and soaked in blood. His whole body is shaking, but the eyes are filled with sharp steel as he stares down at the Italian. Changretta is just lying there. Spilling his brains all over the dirty warehouse floor. Strange to think that a regular bullet could do the trick… Almost a bit anticlimactic. 

A sharp pain cuts through his side, and Alfie thinks it must be one of the nerves in his back acting up, disregarding it as his entire being is focused on Tommy, whose hands are steady as he aims the gun at something behind Alfie. He fires a round into some poor sod who must’ve been standing there. 

He hasn’t heard the shot. And it’s not until he sees the reaction on Tommy’s face, his eyes widening in fear as they fasten on Alfie’s midriff, that he understands something is wrong. 

Alfie looks down. Brings a hand up to his side and feels the warm, thick liquid soaking through his shirt. Struggling to understand the situation, he looks over his shoulder at the man lying slumped a few feet away, who must be the responsible party. The one Tommy just shot. Just another fucking henchman. Isn’t that ironic.

“Now, that’s just fucking rude,” he mutters and sways on his feet, clutching at his side where the blood now is pumping steadily from the wound. A loud ringing fills his ears, drowning out the sound of scattered gunfire. 

Then Tommy is by his side, wrapping an arm around him as his knees buckle. He lowers him gently down onto the floor. Shouldn’t be doing that, Alfie thinks. Must hurt like hell, what with the broken ribs and everything.

“It’s going to be alright. Don’t worry, I’ll fix this-” Tommy croaks, putting both hands onto the wound and pressing down hard. Fuck, that hurts. Alfie makes a face. “Arthur, give me your jacket.” 

Yeah, can’t exactly use that shirt of his. Already soaked in blood, innit? Someone’s arm appears in view, handing Tommy a jacket that he pushes against Alfie’s side.  

“Get an ambulance. Or a car. Hurry,” Tommy orders someone he can’t see. Probably Arthur. Or John. There’s a slight crack to his voice. 

“You okay?” Alfie asks, feeling his throat fill with blood. He turns his head to the side and coughs. It’s Tommy who should be lying down. All bashed up he is. Alfie should wrap him up in his coat, sit with him in his lap and whisper soft reassurances in his ear. Tell him it’s okay now, he’s safe. And Alfie will never let anyone hurt him again. 

Instead he’s lying here, bleeding out onto a dirty warehouse floor. 

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

“Bullshit,” Alfie coughs. 

He’s got no idea what is happening around him. If Changretta’s men have all fled. How many of his own that are still alive. All he can see is Tommy, who is looking down at him with wide eyes. He looks scared. Alfie doesn’t want him to be scared. 

His vision is clouded by darkness, edging closer by the second. And his eyelids are so heavy. He hasn’t really died before, so he can’t tell if this is what it feels like. But it probably is. And fuck, after everything Tommy’s had to endure, now he’ll have to sit here and watch Alfie die too. 

“You’ve got to promise me-“ Fuck, why is it so difficult to talk? “Promise to take care of yourself, alright?”

Now, Tommy shakes his head. But he has to promise. Even though Alfie knows for a  fact that he won’t.

“You can’t say things like that.” 

Something about the desperation in his tone makes Alfie realize that yeah, he’s dying alright. 

He doesn’t want to die. He wants ten, thirty _, fifty_ more years with Tommy. Maybe he should be grateful that he got nearly two. More than people like him deserve, probably.   

“See, just because I’m not there, you-“ his throat fills with blood and he struggles to swallow it down. There’s so much he needs to say. “Can’t just check out. You’ve got that mess of a family- they need you, alright? And-“

Tommy shakes his head again, and something drips down onto Alfie’s cheek. He’s crying. And Alfie doesn’t want him to cry. Not now. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Now he wants him to smile. One of those smiles that makes his eyes light up. Alfie should say something funny.

“Now you listen to me, Alfie Solomons,” Tommy voice comes from somewhere far away. “We’re going to get you to a hospital. They’ll patch you up. And then I’ll pester you every day for the rest of your fucking life about this dramatic outburst.”

Alfie smiles. Or tries to at least, though it mostly comes out as a pained grimace.

“See, if you should fucking _dare_ to die on me now, I’ll take a bloody shovel and I’ll tunnel my way straight down to hell and drag you back up, do you understand?” Tommy cradles his head in his lap, muttering something about where the bloody ambulance is. 

Alfie wants to tell him he loves him, one last time. But the world is a cruel and unforgiving place, and he can’t even open his mouth. And he’s so tired, suddenly.

He hears shouting, and Tommy’s eyes snap towards the sound. Grasping weakly at the hand holding his, Alfie wills him to look back down. Because if he’s fucking dying, Tommy’s face is a very pleasant last view.

“Alfie.” He can see Tommy’s lips moving, but they don’t’ match with the words. Everything is blurry. Far away. “No, Alfie, stay with me, alright? You’ve got to stay awake.”

He hears his name being repeated. But he can’t see anything. 

He tries to picture Tommy smiling, wants to rest in that memory.

“Alfie!”

Everything turns dark.


	5. Chapter 5

Tommy is still surrounded by darkness. He thought he’d finally escaped, but now he’s drowning in it again. It fills his mouth and lungs like ice cold water- There are hands everywhere, tearing at him, hurting him, and he can’t hide from them.

He wakes up at the sound of someone screaming.

“Shh, it’s okay Tom, calm down.” Gentle hands grab his shoulders, holding him down and Tommy thrashes against them. “You’re going to hurt yourself. It’s just me. Just Arthur.”

He opens his eyes, convinced he’ll see nothing but the dark interiors of the cellar again, and blinks dazedly as the brightness in the room stings his eyes. 

He’s lying in a bed, and Arthur is seated on the edge of it. Tommy scrambles to get his mind working. Why is he here? Blurry memories are resurfacing, disjointed and fragmented… Alfie lying on the warehouse floor, bleeding out in his arms. The ride to the hospital. Pacing the corridor as they rushed Alfie off to surgery. 

Alfie. 

“Where’s Alfie?” he rasps out, the words tearing a rattling cough from his lungs. Arthur holds a glass of water to his mouth, and the cool liquid soothes his burning throat. A shadow comes over Arthur's face.

“Tommy…”

“Where is Alfie?” he repeats, sitting up despite the pain that shoots through his ribcage. 

Arthur’s answer comes after far too long. “He’s… resting.” 

“But he’ll be okay? He’s… he’s just resting?” Tommy isn’t sure if this is a question or something he tries to state to himself. The delay in Arthur’s response causes his heart to sink in his chest. 

“He’s lost a lot of blood. The bullet didn’t hit any internal organs but…” Arthur runs a hand over his mouth. “They say that if he wakes up from the anesthesia he’s got a fighting chance. But it’s hard to tell. Until he does.” 

 _If_ he wakes up. Cold sweat breaks out over his entire body as he fights the nausea that overwhelms him. If he wakes up. _You’re going to lose him. And it’s your fault…_  

The voices have followed him from the cellar.

“I need to see him,” Tommy says in an attempt to drown them out. Clutching his bandaged chest, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Arthur catches him gently by the arms. 

“You need to stay in bed.” He tries to guide Tommy back down onto the mattress. “Can’t have you passing out again. You’ve got enough bruises already.” 

A vague memory flutters by in his mind: wandering back and forth in the hallway, looking down at his blood soaked hands as he ignored every concerned nurse trying to get him to lie down. The blood is gone now, and his hands are wrapped in gauze. Did he injure them somehow? He can’t remember.   

It's not important

Completely ignoring his older brother’s protests, Tommy gets out of bed on unsteady feet. The second his feet touch the cold stone, he nearly crumples to the floor as the pain makes his vision go white. It’s as if his entire body has been crushed and is held together by just a few remaining tendrils of bone. 

Arthur’s arms are around him again, but this time they just hold him upright. Tommy leans into the touch.

“Easy there, Tom. Not really in shape to be walking around, I think. Pretty sure you bashed your head a bit when you fainted.”

“I have to-“

Arthur nods and lets out a defeated sigh. “Sure, sure. I’ll help you.” 

They make their way out in the corridor, Arthur supporting almost his entire weight against his side. Tommy tries not to breathe, the expansion of his ribcage is too painful. 

“Where’s John?” A blurry image of his younger brother being there in the car floats up from somewhere in the back of his mind. But he disappeared once they reached the hospital. Tommy can’t remember how. 

“They had to stitch him back up a bit,” Arthur explains as he leads Tommy down the too bright hallway. “A little scratch on the upper arm.” Tommy’s knees give up for a moment and he bites back a sob in pain as Arthur tightens the grip around his waist to keep him upright. “The bullet went straight through. No bones hit or anything. He’s just supposed to be lying down so he doesn’t rip the stitches.”

 _This is all your fault._  

He stares down at the floor, focuses all his attention on putting one foot in front of the other until Arthur finally stops by an anonymous looking door. 

A nurse comes to meet them just as Arthur is about to reach out for the door handle. 

”Only family allowed, I’m afraid,” she says gently, furrowing her brow as she looks Tommy up and down. “What is your relationship with Mister Solomons?” 

Tommy sways on his feet, wrapping the free arm around his stomach to keep it from shaking. Her voice seems to come from so far away. And the question catches him off guard 

“He’s, he’s…” What is he supposed to say?

How is he supposed to explain, when he knows nothing he says will be good enough for them?

“Who are you?” the nurse wonders, still with that questioning expression on her face. “A friend? Brother?” 

“I’m…” There’s nothing he can say. Nothing that will make her understand. It doesn’t count, what they have. Not to the rest of the world. _If he dies, you won’t even get to bury him._ “No-one,” he finally says, choking out the words. “I’m… no-one.” 

Arthur’s arms are strong around him, and his voice is firm as he speaks up.   

“He’s Thomas Shelby, and we’re going in there whether you fucking like it or not. Send the doctor my way if he’s got any objections.”

With that, Arthur leads him past the nurse, and into a room furnished with a single bed, two  chairs, and a small bedside table. A bleak sun is shining in through the window, washing the already indistinct colours out to a light grey.  

Tommy barely recognizes the pale figure lying in the bed. It can’t be Alfie… Alfie, with his constant hand gestures and bright smile and loud voice… who is so full of life that it just seeps into everything around him. The person in the bed can’t be him.

But it is. And it’s Tommy’s fault he’s there. 

His knees feel weak, but Arthur holds him upright, carefully helping him limp up to the bed and sit down in the chair next to it. Tommy can’t tear his eyes from Alfie. If he just keeps looking at him… If he just keeps looking at him, Alfie will wake up. He knows that Tommy needs him. He’ll feel it, and wake up. 

“Tom, it’s going to be alright.” Arthur crouches down in front of him. “He’ll pull through, the stubborn bastard. And you’ll be back to… giving me gray hair in no time.”

Tommy nods. Because he has to.

Silence fills the room. It’s a loud silence, somehow. Deafening. Tommy listens to Alfie’s almost inaudible breaths, struggling to hear them through the sound of his own heartbeat, and too loud breathing. His own breaths rattle in his chest.  

“I’ll just go check on John,” Arthur tells him. “But I’ll be back in a second.” He gets up, and runs a hand through Tommy’s hair in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. It somehow makes Tommy realise he must look like an absolute wreck. 

Arthur leaves.

Then it’s just him.  

He feels lost. Unsure what to do now. So he just sits there on the chair, staring at Alfie’s unmoving frame.

_How could you let this happen?_

After several minutes of hesitation, he reaches out to take Alfie’s hand, terrified that he’ll find it cold. It’s not. Not as warm as it usually is either, but still warm. They've removed the rings, and the jewelry is lined up neatly on the nightstand. Picking the rings up, Tommy gently slides them back onto Alfie’s fingers, carefully making sure they are in their normal spots -the wide gold band on his thumb, the one with square shaped plate on his index… One by one. Until it’s Alfie’s hand again. Tommy pulls the chair as close to Alfie’s bedside as possible, clutching the hand like a lifeline. As long as Tommy stays by his side, Alfie can’t die. He’ll wake up. And everything will be okay again. 

He just has to stay here.

He does. For the entire day. Hours pass –the passage of time is only apparent because people constantly come to bother him. A nurse comes in several times to see if there’s any change in Alfie’s condition, but there never is. A doctor does the same, writing things on a clipboard as he hums to himself. They try to make him leave the chair, go lie down, eat, drink- all these useless things.

Eventually they all turn to an indistinguishable chorus of voices, meaningless and droning. There are so many voices in his head already, a few more make no difference. 

At some point, the nurse puts a tray of food on the nightstand, and Tommy forces himself to drink the water. But he doesn’t touch the food. 

 Eventually she comes to carry it away.

“You really should be in bed, Mister Shelby.” 

He ignores the voice. Partly because he doesn’t know what to say. His throat has closed up completely, making it impossible to speak. 

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he flinches at the touch.

“You are severely dehydrated and sleep deprived. And-“ 

The voice goes on. How can they talk about Tommy when Alfie is just lying in that bed, looking as if he’s moments away from fading way completely?  

When the hand on his shoulder wraps around his upper arm and gently tries to pull him up from the chair, Tommy tears himself loose. Finally giving up, the nurse leaves him alone. 

Arthur comes instead, pulling up a chair next to him. Tommy looks at the steady rise and fall of Alfie’s chest. In and out. He’s still alive. Just resting. In and out-

“Hey, Tommy, I know you want to be here with Alfie alright, but you need to rest.”

He doesn’t want them to talk, because then he can’t hear Alfie’s breathing. He clings to that, just the way he clings to the warmth of his hand, to every little sign that he’s still alive - _just resting, just resting, and he’ll wake up, and everything will be okay again-_

_In and out. Slowly. Everything will be okay._

“You hear me?” 

If he just stays silent, Arthur will go away. They will all go away and leave him alone here with Alfie. He tries to breathe in the same rhythm as Alfie, but it’s hard- every breath makes him painfully aware of his broken ribs.

_In and out. He’s just resting. Everything will be okay. You just have to stay here…_

Finally, Arthur says something about stretching his legs, and disappears from the chair.

...

The sun sets outside the window, and the exhaustion weighs heavily on his shoulders, willing him to rest his head on the mattress for a while. But he resists the urge, sitting up straighter instead.

He’s stayed awake through countless of nights. What’s one more?   

It would be impossible to sleep anyway, with the state his head is in. The guilt is gnawing at his insides, chipping away at him piece by piece. This is his fault. He should’ve seen this coming miles away. Should’ve kept more weapons in the house. Should’ve made sure they moved to a safer location. Should’ve fought back harder-

If he hadn’t gotten caught up in this- 

If he’d been quicker, if he’d shot the man earlier, Alfie wouldn’t be lying here.

_You can’t do anything right, can you?_

How is he going to live with himself if Alfie dies?

The nurse comes in again, placing a new tray of food on the table. Tommy can feel her gaze, but he ignores it. 

Arthur returns not long thereafter, and gives the tray a weary look, fingers digging into his eye sockets. “Could you at least _try_ to eat?” The irritation in his voice is palpable now. 

Tommy can’t eat. If he opens his mouth he’s afraid his insides will just decide to start pouring out of it. The mere thought of having to force down food makes his gut churn. 

“You’re fucking… wasting away.” With a deep sigh, Arthur slumps down on the chair. “What’s Alfie gonna say, eh? When he wakes up and sees you.” 

“He’s not going to wake up,” Tommy says numbly, finally unable to keep the thought away. Blinking in surprise, Arthur stares dumbly at him for a moment. 

“Sure he is-“

The anger bubbles up suddenly, red-hot and uncontrollable. No one understands a single fucking thing. 

“No, he’s not,” Tommy cuts him off. “He’s going to die- and- and I’ll just have to fucking sit here and watch it happen.” He coughs. “And all you fucking do is pester me about all these useless bloody things-“ The room spins around him when he gets to his feet.   

“Tommy-“ Arthur stands too, and Tommy backs away, trying to put himself out of reach.

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters, don’t you see that?”  
Arthur comes towards him, hands outstretched as if approaching a skittish horse. “Tommy, you need rest. Or it won’t matter if Alfie pulls through or not. Because you sure as hell won’t. Have you seen yourself? You look about one second from keeling over.“ 

Tommy stumbles backwards until he hits the wall. 

“Stop fucking telling me to rest and eat and all this _fucking_ bullshit,” he spits venomously. ”I’ve spent the latest years trying to keep you off the fucking ledge, while you’ve just been spiraling. And now you want to play the big brother?”

Arthur clenches his jaw and swallows. “All I’m asking is that you lie down for a while.”

When Tommy resorts to just shaking his head, Arthur grabs him gently by the shoulders. Tommy pushes him, doing little to budge his larger frame. He hasn’t realized how weak his limbs are until now. But Arthur takes a step back nonetheless. 

“Get out.” Tommy pushes him again, ignoring the sharp pain it sends up his arms. “Get the fuck out and leave me alone.” He stares wildly at Arthur.  “Go back to snorting coke and behaving like an unhinged basket-case. You’re better at that.” 

A flash of hurt comes across Arthur’s face and he takes another step back. 

For a moment, the words hang in the air between them as they stare each other down. Arthur is the one to break the silence.

“Fine, I’ll go. Whatever you say.” 

Tommy sways on his feet, chest heaving in frantic breaths as he watches the door slam shut. The air gets caught in his throat, and he begins to cough, clutching the windowsill for support as  the pain shoots like knives through his ribs. White lights dance behind his closed eyelids as he fights to regain his bearings and when the cough finally subsides, he just barely makes it to the chair by Alfie’s bedside  before his knees buckle. He leans forward, head cradled in his hands, and swallows the bile that rises in the back of his throat.

The room seems a lot darker when he straightens up again, and he huddles a bit closer to the side of Alfie’s bed, reaching out to take his hand again.

If he just stays here, everything will be okay. Alfie can’t die while Tommy is sitting here, waiting for him to wake up. 

He just has to stay here. 

But Alfie looks so pale…

_He’s dying. You know that, right? And there’s nothing you can do to change that._

The voices become louder as the night drags on. 

_You don’t deserve him. That’s why this is happening._

He tries to think of something happy, something that will shine a bit of light in the dark and chase the shadows away, drown out the voices. Alfie is the first thing that comes to his mind: Alfie smiling at him when they’re lying in bed. The safe feeling of his strong arms around Tommy’s back. His mouth right next to Tommy’s ear, whispering hushed reassurances when he needs it the most: ‘ _You deserve to be loved. Wish I could make you see that_.’

 _You deserve nothing._ No, but Alfie said- _Alfie is going to die because of you. and you have the gall to believe you deserve him?_  

He can see shadows moving in the corners, creeping closer with each passing hour. It’s just like the walls in the cellar. His eyes drift to the door. What if it’s locked? What if he can’t get out? He's overwhelmed by an almost irresistible urge to open it, but ends up just sitting frozen on the chair, alternating between looking at Alfie’s unconscious form and the door. Walking that far through the darkness is impossible… 

A white figure appears in the room, and he’s certain it only exists in his head- but then it walks up to the bed and leans over Alfie. Instantly tensing up, Tommy stares wide eyed at it. 

“It’s alright, I’m just checking on him,” the figure says and he realises it’s one of the nurses. A different one this time. “Can I get you anything, love? A blanket maybe? You look awfully cold.” 

He shakes his head and a soft smile crosses her lips. She has kind eyes. 

“Well, I’ll get you one anyway. If you change your mind.” When she leaves the room, she doesn’t close the door fully. 

The nurse returns, carrying a blanket and a lamp that burns with a warm, dim light. He can breathe a little easier, suddenly.

“So you don’t have to sit here in the dark,” she explains and places it on the bedside table. “I’ll just leave this here,” she adds and puts the folded blanket on the foot of Alfie’s bed. 

Then she leaves.

Tommy can’t bring himself to reach out for the blanket, even though he's forgotten what it feels like, to be warm. But the cold keeps him from falling asleep. 

The small lamp has created a tiny pool of yellow light around him. The darkness can’t get to him here.

He stays in that pool of light, watching over Alfie for the rest of the night. Trying to ignore the shadows towering over him. They don’t disappear until the morning sun breaks through the thin, white curtains. 

Around him, he vaguely hears the hospital coming to life, filling with distant conversation, footsteps, clattering of trays being carried to the different rooms. Tommy blinks, fighting desperately against his heavy eyelids. The steady rise and fall of Alfie’s chest is still there, no change for the worse. But there’s no change for the better either.

Footsteps are approaching him, but he doesn’t look up to see who it is. It doesn’t matter. 

“Mister Shelby, I must _insist_ that you return to your bed-“ He recognizes the voice from the day before. One of the nurses.   

Why won’t they leave him alone?   

“Or I’ll be forced to have you escorted there.”

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he shies away from the touch, tensing up. After a dejected sigh, the voice and the footsteps disappear out the door. 

Tommy smooths out a wrinkle in the duvet and lets his hand brush over Alfie’s cheek in passing. He allows himself to linger, tracing the delicate skin under his eye with his thumb. If he tries hard enough, he can almost imagine they’re at home, in their own bed. Alfie is just sleeping peacefully, and any second now he’ll wake up and look at Tommy that way only he can… as if he’s the most precious thing in the entire world. And it’s almost enough to make Tommy believe him for a moment… He’ll smile, say something stupid and sweet that causes Tommy blush and call him a fucking sap, even as he basks in the feeling of being wanted by someone… and by someone like  _Alfie,_ who could have his pick of far less dysfunctional people…

His blissful little fantasy is interrupted when two looming figures appear in front of him. Large hands take a firm grip on his upper arms, attempting to lift him out of the chair. It’s two white clad men. The fear surges through him, shocking his body into action and he struggles against them.

“Please calm yourself. You need to rest-“ They try to explain things again. Say that he’s got a concussion, broken bones, is sleep deprived- not thinking clear. Why are they behaving like any of that matters when Alfie is- 

As long as Tommy is there by his side, Alfie can’t die. He promised he’d never leave. And now they’re trying to take him away-

Helpless against the strong hands in his weakened state, Tommy finds himself pulled to his feet and dragged away from Alfie’s bed. His heart races in his chest. 

They will lock him up somewhere. And he’ll be alone in the dark again. Alone, and cold- 

He fights. The piece of glass is gone, and he’s got nothing to defend himself with, but he fights nonetheless, squirming and kicking as best he can with his damaged limbs. When It doesn’t help, he screams, a wordless, desperate cry that rips from his throat. Then finally, the hands lose their grip, and his knees hit the floor. He curls inwards on himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he clasps his arms over his head- making himself small, so small that he becomes nothing and they can’t take him away... can’t hurt him, can’t take him back to the darkness. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Arthur. 

“He really must lie down-“

“And you figured this was a good way to get him to do that? Thought you were supposed to be professionals here. Bloody hell, don’t need no fucking schooling to see he’s fucking terrified.  

“Sir-“ 

“Just get the fuck out of here. Fuck’s sake. I’ve got this.”

He feels the presence of a body next to him.

“Tom, it’s okay, you’re safe. I've got you, alright?” Arthur’s voice is soft and reassuring. Something warm is draped over his shoulders, and he’s enveloped by a familiar scent of rum. “There we go. Got Alfie’s coat cleaned for you.” As Arthur is talking he carefully pries Tommy’s arms away from on his head and guides his hands into the coat sleeves. “Guess you’ll have to stitch that hole up. But Alfie can probably do that… Good at that sort of thing I imagine… 

Arthur helps him up, carrying more than leading him back to the chair. Steadier than he’s been in years. Tommy reaches out and takes Alfie’s hand again to keep his own from shaking, before settling back in his chair, sinking deep into the warmth of the coat. He buries his nose in the thick collar and breathes the scent into his nose, wishing it could fill him up completely, replace the fear seeping like icy water through his veins. It smells like Alfie. Like home.

Something scrapes against the floor, and Arthur heaves a sigh as he sits down on the chair, opposite him. But it’s not followed by another comment on how he should get some rest, ore eat… He just silently stays by his side.

Arthur sits with him as another night begins to fall, and the shadows in the room grow longer again. He still doesn’t tell him to sleep. And no one else comes to force him to do it either.

The realisation doesn’t hit him suddenly. It creeps up on him. With each passing hour, he can feel the lump in his throat grow bigger, feel his chest tighten and the hand clenched around his insides hold them a bit harder. 

Arthur is snoring in his chair, and the room is dark. 

The nurse comes in just briefly, giving them a onceover, before leaving again.

Alfie is going to die. That’s why they’re not bothering him anymore, because they all know, and finally understand how pointless everything else is.

For a moment, Tommy is certain he’s back in that warehouse, his ribcage caving in under the brutal force of steel pounding against it.  

He’s breaking into a thousand pieces.

All the cracks that Alfie spent so much time trying to mend, to make him a little less broken… all those jagged edges he smoothed out so he wouldn’t always hurt anyone who came too close… It’s all for nothing right at that moment. He can feel himself falling apart, piece by piece.

The tears seeping down his cheeks are not accompanied by any sobs. They just silently fall, painting burning hot trails over his cold skin. 

Hands still clasped around Alfie’s, Tommy rests his forehead against his knuckles and prays. For a miracle. For just one fucking miracle, even if he doesn’t deserve it. He prayed sometimes in the tunnels, and it should’ve taught him that it’s no use. God doesn’t listen to people like him. But he does it, still, for Alfie.

Alfie deserves a miracle. 

_Please let him wake up. Please let him be okay. Please don’t take him away from me, because I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. I’ll do anything…_

 The God he was raised to believe in won’t listen. But maybe Alfie’s God will.

 ...

The night has faded into another dawn, a grey, rainy one. Tommy raises his head to watch the droplets whip against the windowpane, eyes stinging. A grunt is heard from the chair next to him as Arthur begins to stir. After rubbing the sleep from his eyes and blinking sluggishly a few times, he turns his attention to Tommy, eyes shifting between him and Alfie. His mouth falls open to ask a question, but he apparently figures out the answer before finding the right words. 

“Just going to see if John’s allowed out of bed yet,” Arthur says and gets up from the chair, rolling his shoulders. “He might start biting the nurses otherwise.”  

Alone once again, Tommy finds himself unable to fight the weariness weighing down on his shoulders. It’s no use. Before he can make a conscious decision, his body just gives up and slumps forward. He lays his head down on the mattress, closing his eyes to will the nausea away. His muscles refuses to support him any longer, and he remains there.

They’ll have to carry him away when they come to fetch Alfie’s body.

When the hand he’s holding shifts slightly, fingers gripping weakly around his, he is certain he’s imagining it. But he straightens up nonetheless, using some unknown source of strength.

The lack of sleep has finally gotten to him, and now he’s seeing things. 

“Alfie?” His voice is raspy from disuse, but he manages to get the word out.

Alfie looks at him through a veil of lashes, mouth twitching under the beard. 

“Morning, love. Been waiting here for long?”    

It takes a few unfathomably long seconds before he finally pulls himself out of the stupor. Then he pitches forward and kisses Alfie, cradling his face between his bandaged hands.

The relief flooding his chest is unlike anything he’s felt in his entire life, and the tears come before he can stop them, filling his eyes and seeping down his cheeks. The lips under his are warm and undeniably real and Alfie is alive everything will be okay now…

“I love you,” he breathes out. “God, I love you so much.” It’s all he manages to say. And right at that moment, it’s all he needsto say.

When a choked sob escapes him, Tommy quickly straightens up and wipes the tears away, swallowing down the ones threatening to well his eyes. Alfie shouldn’t have to see him cry the first thing he does.

“Oh, it’s alright sweetheart,” Alfie mutters wearily, looking up at him with soft eyes. “Better to let it out. ” 

No. He can’t just fall apart now. Alfie needs him. Biting the inside of his cheek, he takes strained breaths in through his nose until he’s regained his bearings enough to speak. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Just peachy.” Alfie grimaces in pain as he shifts slightly on the mattress, eliminating any credibility the words may have had.

“I’ll get a nurse.” Tommy makes a move to stand, ignoring his entire body protesting violently by sending a wave of pain through all his limbs. Alfie tightens the grip around his hand slightly.

“Stay.” 

“Just to let them know you’re awake,” he promises. He can feel himself slurring, struggling against his uncooperative tongue. “So they can give you something for the pain.” Alfie lets out sigh, releasing his hand.

The floor is rocking under him as he unsteadily makes his way over to the door, clutching the frame for support as he scans the hallway. Arthur and John are stood a little ways down, and the second they see him, they both come walking in his direction.  

“You look like you should be in the fucking morgue,” John exclaims and earns a sharp elbow in the ribs from Arthur.

“Alfie’s awake,” Tommy says, grasping for words as he ignores this comment.. “Could -“ Fuck, he can’t even string a sentence together. “A nurse. Could you get a nurse?” 

“I’m on it,” John states and marches off, while Arthur ushers Tommy back into the room and towards the chair right in time before his legs give up.

“Look at you, you stubborn bastard.” Arthur beams at Alfie, slapping his shoulder and earning a sharp glare from Tommy. “Just knew I wouldn’t get rid of you that easily.” Alfie lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Well, I was standing there by the pearly gates and all, but then I said to myself: who will pester Arthur, then?”

“Easy with the talking.” Tommy brushes a stray hair away from Alfie’s forehead. “You need to rest.”

“But I’ve got several days’ worth of it, love.” Alfie smiles at him. It’s faint, and tired, but it still makes Tommy’s heart swell in his chest. “’Least I think so. How long-“ he makes a pause, taking a pained breath. “How long was I out for?” 

Tommy looks to Arthur for an answer. It’s all just been a daze. 

“Three days,” Arthur tells him. “Was about time you decided to wake up. I’ve been left to run things all on my own here.” 

John enters with a nurse and a doctor in tow. Tommy is pretty sure they’ve both been in there before, but he can’t remember when. 

“Solomons! You look like shit, mate,” John exclaims and gives Alfie a bright grin, walking up to the bed. This time, Tommy manages to stop him before any unnecessarily violent slaps of affection are handed out. “And you didn’t even get to hear the shit that went down! Do I have a story for you. Me and Ishmael, we’re hiding behind this crate, right, when we see these blokes, definitely not ours, come in through the back door so we-” 

When John is relieved, he rambles. So for a while, the room descends in a rather pleasant kind of chaos, as the doctor tries to ask Alfie questions, Alfie tries to answer them, John talks about the shootout with Changretta’s men, Arthur does the same, and the poor nurse just does her best trying to hush them. 

Tommy sits quietly in his chair and watches the whole thing unfold, still caught in some confusing mixture of disbelief and dizzying happiness. 

“Well, Mister Solomons. As long as we steer clear of infections, I recon you will be quite alright after a good few weeks of rest-” The doctor puts great emphasis on this as he talks about the recovery process ahead, resting. Tommy needs to remember that.  

The doctor leaves, and after giving a few admonishing comments to both John and Arthur concerning the volume, the nurse states she’ll come back with something to eat, before following suit.

John can’t stop talking, it would seem. On any other occasion, Tommy would tell him to shut up, but he can’t bring himself to do so now.

“Know what, John, think we should leave these two alone,” Arthur finally says and grabs his shoulder. “If I know them right they need to stare longingly into each other’s eyes for _at least_ half an hour now.” 

John grins and lets himself be dragged towards the door 

“We should call Pol,” he declares. “Give her the absolutely devastating news that she’ll just have to continue putting up you.” And with that, they close the door, and peace settles in the room again   

Tommy runs a hand through Alfie’s hair, noticing the a tension around his eyes

“You sure you don’t want any morphine?” 

“Nah…” Alfie mutters. “Like to keep me wits about me. ‘s just a bit of pain.” 

Tommy nods tightly. 

“Why don’t you lie down for a bit?” Alfie stretches out his arm gingerly in an inviting gesture. “Looks like you could use some rest.” Tommy wants nothing more than to take him up on the offer.  

“What about the-“ the nurses, the doctor, fucking everyone… 

“Fuck’em,” Alfie huffs, immediately wincing in pain. “Get in here.” 

Tommy carefully climbs into bed next to him, stretching his aching legs out. The pain in his side keeps him from doing anything but lie perfectly still on his back, but he feels the warmth of Alfie’s body next to his, and soon enough, their fingers are laced together under the duvet. 

“You okay?” Alfie squeezes his hand. “What sort of things did he do to you, eh? Changretta.”

Tommy keeps his eyes fixed on the duvet.

“I was just locked up somewhere. Nothing to worry about.” 

When Alfie opens his mouth to protest, Tommy turns his head to capture his lips in a soft kiss instead.

“We’ll talk when you’re feeling better. Just rest now. You heard the doctor.” He settles his head back onto the pillow. They’re not going to talk about the cellar.  “And then we’re also going to talk about that incredibly stupid fucking plan of yours.”    

For once, Alfie’s stubbornness can’t help him; he resorts to running his thumb over Tommy's knuckles, before closing his eyes and announcing that he’s just going to sleep for a bit. 

“You should too, love.”

What Tommy really should do is stay awake and make sure that Alfie wakes up this time- 

He’s asleep before he can finish the thought.

 ...

When Tommy wakes up again, confused but not quite as terrified as the last time, he much to his surprise finds Polly is sitting in the same chair he’s been occupying the past few days. Arthur and John are seated by the opposite wall, engaged in a conversation of unknown nature and at an uncharacteristically reasonable volume. 

“What are you doing here?” he rasps out. Polly smiles and reaches out to stroke his cheek. 

“Had to look after my boys, didn’t I?” she says. “And not a minute too soon, it would seem. You look awful.”

“Oh, don’t listen to her, love,” Alfie’s voice comes from above him, a fraction stronger than the last time he heard it. He’s sitting leaned against the pillows and looking down at Tommy with a fond smile. “Just a little pale. Some food and another week of sleep and you’ll be as radiant as ever.”

His fingers rake against the nape of Tommy’s neck, and Tommy furrows his brow, still rather confused. Outside the window, the rain has turned into a steady snowfall, and the gray light gives no indication of what hour of the day it is.

“How long have I been sleeping?”  

“Little over a day, the good doctor told me,” Alfie says. “Was out myself for a bit of it too, so I had to check.” 

With some help from Polly, Tommy also manages to sit up, and is just about to ask who is taking care of things at home, who’s looking after Finn, when the question answers itself. 

“You’re awake!” Finn comes rushing into the room, and Polly just barely manages to stop him from throwing himself over Tommy. Behind him, Ada and Esme appear in the doorway.

“You’re… all here?” Tommy asks dumbly.

“We commandeered a boat!” Ada tells him with a grin. “We figured women and children would just have to step in and make sure you lot didn’t get yourself killed.”

“I’m mostly here for the sights,” Esme shrugs, but the vase of flowers in her arms contradict this statement. 

This is all a bit too much to take in, and Tommy can’t quite come up with a response. Luckily he doesn’t have to, because Finn is as usual full of them.

“I’ve been looking after the horses.” He seats himself on the edge of the bed. “They got very scared when I told them you were missing, but now they’re happy again, so don’t worry.” Without hesitation, he digs up Tommy’s bandaged hand from under the cover and very gently takes it between his smaller ones, patting it carefully. “I went to the stables every day. Because horses sense a lot of things, so I figured it was better to just be upfront with them.” Tommy has a feeling this has more to do with Finn than the horses. 

“These are for you,” Esme tells Alfie and puts the flowers down on the nightstand.  “Better get back on your feet quickly,” she adds with a rare smile. “I’ve gotten used to having help in the kitchen. Would be a shame if we lost the only decent man in the household. ”

“Recon John can step in,” Alfie gives a pointed look in his direction, and John takes great offence.    

“I’m severely injured!” 

“Indoor voices, please,” Polly says sternly, before turning her attention to Alfie. “If you need me to escort this lot out of here, just say the word.” 

Alfie sinks a little deeper into the pillows, giving her a dismissive wave. “It’s fine.”

“Well, this is what life in the Shelby family is like.” Ada shakes her head and seats herself on the edge of the bed next to Finn. “Constant chaos. Always. In any situation. No mercy.” She reaches out to pat the general area on the duvet where Alfie’s knee presumably is. “And now you’re stuck with us. Congratulations. 

Tommy glances up at Alfie to make sure this virtual storm of impressions isn’t too much. Granted, he still looks quite pale and exhausted, but a smile is hidden behind the beard, and his eyes are bright. 

He rests his head lightly on Alfie’s shoulder and hugs the arm close to his chest, twining their fingers together. Alfie gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Soon, the family has made themselves comfortable in different spots around and on the bed, filling the room with a chaos only comparable to the one usually reigning over their dinner table. Alfie gives Tommy a piece of bread from the tray on the nightstand with the comment:

“Saved this for you love. Figured you hadn’t eaten in a while.” And curled up against Alfie’s warm body, Tommy manages to eat. Slowly. And only one tiny bite at the time. But still. 

Finn is talking constantly. It’s his first time in London, so obviously just the walk to the hospital has given him about a million things to reflect upon. And much like John, he’s incapable of being quiet whenever he’s overcome by some strong emotion. 

“And there are so many tall houses? I saw one- one with a clock. There’s a picture of that house my history book in school, but someone has drawn all over it so you can’t see it that well-“

It’s impossible for the Shelby family to be in one room together without trying to all talk at the same time, and despite the welcomed contrast from the last few days’ crippling loneliness, Tommy begins to worry it’s going to tire Alfie out. 

“Just tell me if you need to rest,” Tommy whispers softly into his ear, as to not let Finn hear him. “They won’t mind.”  

“Was just about to tell you the same, love,” Alfie answers in the same quiet voice. The rest of the family seem quite unaware of this exchange, currently listening to Finn describe what could be Buckingham palace, or simply any other large building. “I don’t mind.” 

Tommy relaxes against his side, the familiar atmosphere enveloping him in blissful safety. He’s still wearing Alfie’s coat, so the cold he thought had permanently settled in his bones has finally melted away. And suddenly, the past days just feel like a distant nightmare. Even the memories from the cellar, the musty air, the darkness, seem far away at that moment. He’s not alone now.

“I recon I could swim across that river!” 

“No, Finn!“ 

Tommy glances down at the bandages covering Alfie’s stomach, and a jolt of guilt twists his gut. He hugs the arm a little tighter and tears his eyes away from the injury, shifting them to Alfie’s face instead, and the happy expression that still lingers under the veil of exhaustion.

“Everything okay?” Alfie mutters into his hair as he kisses the top of his head and Tommy gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

Alfie is alive. He’s here with Tommy, and that’s all that matters right now. 

“Yeah. Everything’s okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *incoherent yelling* it's finished. My eyes are bleeding from editing. But it's finished! There'll be a one shot sequel to this, to deal with the aftermath. All that trauma and so on.


End file.
